Elixir Vitae
by jugglequeen
Summary: AU XF fanfic set around the time of IWTB. Elixir Vitae means Elixir of Life. Mulder has to find a way to reconnect with Scully.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

Her auburn hair is the first thing I see of her. It's not done the usual way. It's not neatly blow-dried in an effort to get rid of the frizz but has obviously been neglected. It falls oddly onto her shoulders in untamed curls, but it reflects the light of the afternoon sun as it always does when she sits on our porch with a cup of tea after a tough day, watching the sun go down.

I instantly know it's her.

Her hair is quite a bit longer since the last time I saw her about three months ago before she had once again been taken from me. This time by a psychopath we'd been chasing together, not by alien colonists, nor by a bunch of governmental conspirators.

I'd been asked by the FBI to help out with my profiling skills to hunt down a serial killer and, of course, I had to drag her into the case with me. She'd been working as a doctor in the children's ward at the local hospital close to where we'd settled down. She'd put the FBI behind her for good, hell, why hadn't I let her? Well, I know the answer to that question: I simply didn't know how to work on a case alone anymore, without discussing it with her and seeking her advice. And, as was expected, she had given me the final hint I needed to put the pieces of the puzzle together and identify the guy. I still don't understand how I could've been so blind and not see that the killer had turned the tables and had started stalking me. It hadn't even occurred to me that he might change the favorited target he'd been pursuing until then - brunette, rather plump women - to a petite, slender redhead. I, acclaimed profiler Spooky Mulder, had overlooked that taking away the person I simply couldn't live without, might be the killer's next move to react against me.

One day, when I came home, I found the kitchen devastated with no sign of Scully whatsoever. Even a mind not as capable of profiling as mine would've been able to tell that a battle had taken place. There were shards of glass and china on the kitchen floor, drawers had been pulled out where she must've looked for some kind of weapon to use on her attacker. The forensic team found a kitchen knife underneath the coffee table covered in blood that wasn't hers. Scully wouldn't give in just like that, of course, she'd fought for her life. Two chairs in the living room had been knocked over and the pillows that are always sitting in an orderly fashion on the couch, carefully arranged by Scully herself, had been scattered on the floor, one of them with blood stains that turned out to be hers later on.

I've been looking for her in every corner of this goddamn country ever since, had turned every stone, had looked into in every hole and on top of every mountain, with no trace whatsoever leading to her. I followed every lead, no matter how lukewarm it was. Skinner told me to leave it to him and his team, and I knew he'd move heaven and hell to find his former agent, he'd always had a soft spot for her, but I just couldn't sit at home by the phone twiddling my thumbs when in the meanwhile my Scully was held hostage by an unhinged psychopath known for the brutal way he abused women.

And then, finally, after three months in which I ceased to feel alive myself, driven by my fears and sense of foreboding, I received a phone call last night from a place called Pratt & Miller Neuropsychiatric Clinic, Philadelphia, PA.

"Agent Mulder, a woman has been checked into our facility who might be the one you're looking for," a friendly female voice told me.

I took the first plane out of Des Moines, where I'd talked to an inmate who claimed to have shared a cell with the killer years ago but had turned out to be a copycat seeking for attention. The call saved him from experiencing my fist in his face for having wasted my precious time.

So I'm standing in the clinic head's office now, following the man's index finger which is pointing outside in the direction to where a woman is sitting on a white wooden bench, her back turned toward us. One short glimpse at her from behind is enough for me to recognize her. Her hair, her stature, the way she's sitting there with her elbows propped up on her thighs, is all Scully.

She's alive!

Thank God, she's alive!

"We don't have really good news for you about her current condition, though, Agent Mulder. She has total amnesia. She doesn't recall anything, not her name, her age, her residence, her profession, how she got to the place where she was found," Doctor Pratt, one of the two name givers of this institution, tells me.

"Drop the Agent, please. I'm here as her husband, not as her co-worker," I say.

How can he say that this is no good news? It's the best news I can think of!

I've got her back in one piece. For whatever reason, the mad man who abducted her chose not to kill her like he killed all his other victims. Maybe she was just not his type after all. Instead, he abandoned her in a parking lot of a grocery store in a rural village at night, dressed in nothing but a thin shirt and sweat pants. That's what the police report says. She was found in the morning by the first employees arriving to open up the store. She was sitting on a bench, disoriented and mute, so they called the police and an ambulance. She was brought into a hospital, stayed for two days, then the physician in charge committed her to the psychiatric institution of doctors Pratt and Miller.

"How long has she been here?" I ask.

How many days of seeing her have I already missed?

"For ten days now. It took the police that long to check all the missing person reports."

"Will she get better?"

"Difficult to say as we don't know what exactly caused the amnesia. An external impact, like a hit on the head, for example, could be an explanation, or an accident, maybe a drug. Amnesia can also be triggered by a mental trauma, when a person has seen or experienced things the psyche cannot cope with, so it shuts the memory down for protection."

I groan. It causes me physical pain just to think about what that psychopath might have done to her.

"She might regain her memory tomorrow but it might also take a year," Doctor Pratt continues. "She might remember everything all at once or piece by piece at one step a time."

"Is it also possible she'll never get it back?"

"I'm afraid complete permanent amnesia is a possibility, yes. I'm sorry that I don't have better news for you, Mr. Mulder."

"Is she hurt otherwise?"

"No, we haven't found a single scratch or bruise. No broken limbs, no internal injuries. Not even a lump on her head. She was hypothermic when she was found, but not physically harmed."

"This man, the one who kidnapped her, he…he's a brutal rapist."

I hold my breath.

"She was checked through thoroughly at the hospital before she came here and there were no signs she'd been raped. Of course, we cannot really tell for the entire time she was under this man's control. There is a somewhat fresh small scar on her upper arm which might have been from a stab with a knife but other than that, physically she's perfectly healthy. All we're worried about is her memory."

Throughout the entire conversation with Doctor Pratt, my eyes are glued to her back as she's sitting on a bench outside in the sun. She lives. That's the most important thing. I don't care if she remembers me, recognizes me, recalls what we are to each other. At least not for now. She lives. That's what I prayed for, and my prayers have been answered.

After I've listened to all of Doctor Pratt's deliberations of Scully's state of health, of her prognosis and the things I'm supposed to be doing to help her and the things I'm not, I have to see her. I cannot wait any longer, so I excuse myself and am walking toward her now, closing the gap between us with every hesitant step. I'm thrilled but also terrified, for I don't know what to expect.

"Excuse me," I address her gently in order not to startle her. I point to the spot next to her on the bench. "Is this seat taken?"

She turns her head and looks at me and my heart skips a beat.

Oh my, there's not the slightest hint of recognition in her beautiful, bottomless, blue eyes. She looks at me as if I were a total stranger, but she smiles and my knees threaten to buckle.

"Uh, no," she answers, "have a seat."

I sit next to her, not as close as I want to but close enough for me to feel her proximity. It's so hard not to pull her into an embrace, kiss her, ask her where she's been, and tell her I love her.

I'm a bit sobered when I realize she doesn't really take note of me sitting with her on this bench. She stares at something in the distance, her face expressionless, her body absolutely still. I try to figure out what she's looking at. Is it the birch tree? Or the little white pavilion by the pond? Is it the sky she's looking at, scattered clouds drifting by?

"Are you a patient or a visitor?" I try to start a conversation.

She turns her head once again and looks at me. Jesus, how I feared to never see that lovely face again.

"A patient. You?"

"Visitor."

"I see."

"My name is Mulder, Fox Mulder."

"Nice to meet you, Fox."

Oh my God, how strange that sounds. She's called me Fox maybe three times for all the years we've been together. If I needed one more proof that she doesn't know who I am, it would be her calling me Fox.

"And yours?"

I bite my tongue when I see how discomforting my question is for her.

 _You're an idiot, Mulder! What did Doctor Pratt tell you? Don't upset her! And the first thing you do is upsetting her._

She focusses on whatever she focussed on before, squints, then clears her throat.

"Kelly…they call me Kelly. As a matter of fact, I don't know my name." She looks at me again, apologetically shrugging her shoulders. "Amnesia."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, there's reason to hope for the memory to come back. Who are you visiting?"

She obviously doesn't want to talk about it any further.

"My…wife," I answer, and the answer burns a hole into my heart.

"What's her name?" she asks me, and it's hard to accept the seriousness in her voice. She really doesn't have a clue who she is.

I've been bold enough to hope that my mere presence would awaken some memories. As if it were impossible to forget me, as if what we've had was powerful enough to be a wonder weapon against hard pathological facts.

 _What we HAVE! Mulder, would you not talk about her as if your time was up! She's sitting right in front of you!_

She's alive, her beautiful body unharmed. How often have I seen her bruised, scratched, beaten up, intoxicated, stabbed, shot?

"Dana, her name is Dana," I finally answer her question.

"Nice name," she says, displaying no remembrance at all. "Do you have kids?"

 _Oh no!_

If there's one thing I don't want her to remember it's the grief and pain connected to the loss of her child. But what can I do? I have to answer her question and I remember Doctor Pratt's instruction not to tell any lies.

"A son."

"What's his name?"

 _Don't, Scully! Please, don't!_

"William."

I can hardly voice his name.

She stiffens for a moment, frowning. She looks at me, and I can read from her face that the sound of her son's name does something to her. It seems to ring a bell deep inside her.

"William," she murmurs. "Will-iam."

She lets the two syllables slowly roll off her tongue.

"Is something wrong, Kelly?"

Speaking out the name feels awkward, although I called her so many fake names when we were on the run: Sandra, Melanie, Trish, Jennifer, Claudia… Never Kelly, though.

"I don't know. The name…William…it sounds familiar somehow, but I can't pinpoint it. Never mind."

She shakes her head as if to get rid of whatever it was that prompted that kind of reaction from her.

"So, your name is Fox. Are you cunning and sly like a fox, always trying to trick others and getting away with it?"

The corners of her mouth rise in a slightly teasing smile.

"Where did you get this from?" I ask.

"Isn't that how the fox is portrayed in fables, legends, fairy tales, myths?"

I am surprised.

"You remember what the fox is portrayed in literature but you don't remember your own name?"

"Personal memories are saved at one part of the brain and general knowledge at another. It seems that my brain is affected where the personal memory lies. Heavily affected."

She speaks in this no-nonsense fashion to me, mechanically reciting medical facts like she's done hundreds of times before. I'm so familiar with this scientific tone of voice that it soothes my aching heart for a moment before I realize how cruel it is to see that brilliant brain of hers cut off of the most basic information we all share as human beings, our ability to know who we are.

"Did the doctors tell you that?"

"Actually, now that you're asking…no, they didn't." She frowns. "I…simply seem to know." She looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. "How's that possible?"

"You might be a medical doctor yourself," I can't keep myself from telling her although Doctor Pratt warned me not to talk her into anything, but this is just too obvious. Science-Scully is in there.

She tilts her head. "Maybe." She sighs again, "if only I knew."

"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to upset you," I tell her, and Doctor Pratt.

"You're not upsetting me. Actually, I enjoy talking to someone else but my psychiatrist."

"The pleasure is all mine."

"Won't Dana be upset when she finds out you've been spending time with another woman instead of being at her bedside?"

"Who?"

"Dana, your wife? You told me you were visiting your wife," she explains to me so matter-of-factly that the hair stands up at the back of my neck.

I AM visiting my wife, I want to cry out, I'm sitting right in front of her! But, of course, I can't. It might push her down to an even deeper state of oblivion Doctor Pratt told me. It might scare her, confuse her, overwhelm her.

"Uh, Dana, my wife. Right," I answer instead. "Uh, no, she's getting a treatment right now." I glance at my watch. "Which is about to be finished in a few minutes, I'm afraid."

On the one hand, I want to sit here with her forever, on the other, I fear this conversation might get out of hand.

"You better go and pick her up. Take her for a stroll through the park. It's a wonderful afternoon." She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. "I love the spring. Nature is coming back to life, the greens are so intense, the air is crisp, and the sunlight is so bright and clear."

I know you do, I almost whisper.

If I could, I would take her hand and lead her to the park for an afternoon stroll around the pond. She would feed the duck, her hair would shine as hauntingly beautiful as the foliage in the fall, we would walk arm in arm, and share a kiss every now and then.

Oh, how I want to take you her for a walk just now!

"Goodbye, Fox," she says holding her hand out for me to shake.

"Maybe we can continue this some other time?" I propose and take her hand, electrified by the sensation of her tiny hand in mine. I had already feared I wouldn't be able to touch her ever again.

"Maybe. I'll be here for quite some time, I suppose." She smiles at me, weakly, but she smiles. "Go see your wife, Fox. I bet she's waiting for you."

I hate to let her go. I hate to return to my motel room without her, to leave her behind believing nobody knows who she is.

It's been a start, though. We can work on this. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll be back and I will make sure we run into each other again. And the day after tomorrow, and the day after that. I will come here day after day as long as it takes to get her back completely, not only her body but also her mind.

"Take care…Kelly," I say, and speaking out the name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

"Goodbye, Fox. It was nice meeting you." She throws me a non-committal smile.

Nice. It might have been nice for you, it was exhilarating for me.

And heart-breaking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

After a restless night in my comfortless motel room and a hasty coffee in the morning, I'm back at the clinic to see her, only that I don't have any idea how to keep a low profile.

I'm contemplating which unsuspicious words to say to her when I hear Dr. Pratt call me, "Mr. Mulder!" He's waving at me on his way over to where I'm standing, still indecisive about how to approach her.

"Dr. Pratt."

We shake hands.

"How did your conversation go with your wife yesterday?"

"Oh, good. Really good, I suppose."

"And you're here to see her again?"

"Uh, yes. I hope that's not a problem."

"No, not at all. She seemed very upbeat and in a good temper at our late afternoon therapy session. The chat with you did her good."

"I was hoping it would."

I don't know what it would've done to me, had he said that our conversation had disturbed her that much that I should refrain from talking to her today.

"Just keep in mind that her mental condition is sensitive. You mustn't confuse or unsettle her. Don't try to induce anything. Her memory has to come back naturally and at its own pace. If you put the words into her mouth, she won't be able to differentiate between what she remembered herself and what she was told. It could be devastating for her."

Above his metal-rimmed spectacles, Dr. Pratt throws me a serious look which urges me to nod in understanding.

"I got it, Dr. Pratt. I'll be cautious not to undermine her healing process. It's just that I missed my wife terribly those past three months. I was afraid I'd never see her again. Now that I found her, I can't just sit in my room and wait for her to remember me."

I get a compassionate pat on the shoulder.

"I understand, Mr. Mulder. I understand you very well. If you're looking for her, after our morning group she said she wanted to go for a stroll around the pond. You might find her there."

"Thank you, doctor," I say and am already on my way.

It doesn't take me long until I spot her. The clinic park is not very big and her red hair is reflecting the early day sun. Scully's by the little pond, watching a mother duck with her little ducklings. She doesn't see me coming, so I make my presence known with a silent cough.

She looks up and smiles. "Hey, Fox! It's you again!"

Alright, the short-term memory seems to work just fine.

"Yeah, hi, it's me again."

I grin. Stupidly, I suppose. I hope my face doesn't show how much I missed her last night when I was lying in my bed all alone, terribly cold because she wasn't there to warm me.

"Where's your wife?"

Darn, I have to lie to her again, and I feel a sting of guilt because of it.

"She, uh, isn't feeling well. Doctor Pratt ordered bedrest for the remains of the day."

"Poor thing. I hope she gets better soon. Doctor Pratt is my attending physician as well. He's a good therapist. Your wife is in good hands."

Her genuine concern for this woman, who doesn't exist but is, in fact, she herself, troubles me.

"I know," I answer and push the lump back down my throat which threatens to suffocate me.

She doesn't seem to notice my uneasiness, her eyes are back on the duck family.

"Aren't they cute?" She's thrilled by the fluffy feather balls bustling around. "Look how the little ones follow their mother everywhere she moves."

She breaks a few crumbs off a bun she pulls out of the pocket of her jacket and throws them into the water.

"It's from the breakfast buffet," she whispers conspicuously to me. "We're not supposed to take food out of the dining hall, so…shhh," she puts her index finger to her mouth, "don't tell anyone!"

"My lips are sealed," I tell her with one hand up in the air as if I was put on oath.

She throws me a satisfied smile, casting more crumbs at the ducks that swim toward them cackling loudly.

"See that tiny one over there?"

She points to a dark brown duckling, somewhat smaller than its siblings.

I nod.

"It's the smallest. I bet it was the last one to hatch, and now it's still too slow to get any of the crumbs because the others are snatching all of them from under its nose."

She clicks her tongue.

"C'mere little baby duckling, I've got something for you."

Her voice is smooth as silk as she's trying to draw the little bird toward her. When the duckling swims in our direction, she throws a few crumbs in front of its tiny beak.

"Here you go! Quick, before your brothers and sisters get scent of this private feeding!"

The duckling seems to understand. It snags a piece almost as big as its head without making any fuss, then swims in the opposite direction to nibble at it in peace and quiet.

"It's gonna make it," Scully says confidently.

"How can you be so sure?" I wonder.

"The small ones tend to be underestimated, but they're tough. Often tougher than the others."

"Just like you?" I venture.

She straightens her back, then looks down at her small physique and sighs, "hopefully."

 _Oh, Scully, if only you knew how strong you are! How unyielding and tenacious you can be!_

If she remembered how she fought her way through a male-dominated environment for years and years, how she withstood the dark forces that tried to destroy her, how she managed to survive one misfortune in her life after another, she'd have a much greater deal of faith in her ability to master this crisis.

I do, but she's not aware of her strength, instead her self-doubts and insecurity are so palpable that I jump up from the bench and position myself in front of her. I have to break her free from this contemplative mood.

"How about a walk around the pond?" I ask her.

She looks up at me, squinting one eye as the sun is dazzling her.

"Yes, that would be nice."

"Let's go then. It'll take your mind off things."

She shows me a sweet smile and closes the gap I established between us by taking a few of my extensive steps.

I wish I could take her hand, but that's completely out of the question, of course. So we walk side by side for a while without talking, simply enjoying the other's presence. At least, I can say that for me. I enjoy every step I'm making with her beside me. If I just knew what to talk to her about.

"You know what really bugs me, Fox?" she eventually fills the silence with her lovely voice.

"That you can't remember what you prefer, Coke or Pepsi?" I venture for a joke and earn myself an eye roll I'm very familiar with.

"That I don't remember anything about my family. I am someone's daughter, but I don't remember my parents. Do I have brothers and sisters? Am I married? Divorced? Somebody's girlfriend? Am I a mother?"

There are so many sad answers to her questions that it makes bile rise up my food pipe, the only positive being our happy marriage. I could tell her how I proposed to her while we were on the run, barely a year after she dug me out of that rotten prison cell with Skinner's help. How it was meant to make a family of us, although without William we'd never be one really. We'd always be just a couple, not a family. Considering this I have to say that I'd have to give her sad answers to all her questions. She might want to keep her amnesia if she knew.

"Why isn't anybody picking me up here? Or at least paying me a visit? Does that mean there is nobody in my life who cares enough to be wondering where I am? To be noticing I'm gone in the first place?"

My heart crumbles to pieces. Am I really supposed to leave her in the dark about that? To let her believe she's not missed? Not cared about? Not loved?

"I'm sure there is someone desperately trying to find you, Kelly. I guess they just haven't found you yet," I simply have to tell her. "I'm sure this someone will turn up soon and everything's gonna be fine."

"If you say so," she says but doesn't sound convinced. "It's so much easier if you know what or who you're going through this for. The examinations, MRI's, therapy, medication. Your wife is lucky to have you, Fox. You come here every day to visit her. I wished I had someone who supported me like that."

I realize when I'm given a golden opportunity, and I'm eagerly seizing it.

"I could say hello whenever I'm here."

"Oh, no! I could never ask you to do that."

"You're not asking for it, I'm offering it to you."

"Wouldn't your wife mind?"

"She's…uh, resting a lot. My visits are always bound to be quite short. I can spend my time with her and still have enough of it to look after you. I don't know what to do with myself anyway. So, if you don't mind to have me around once in a while…" I trail off, holding my breath in anticipation of her answer. Hopefully, I don't sound bothersome or over-zealous.

"No, I don't mind. I don't mind at all," she says, and I try to subtly let the air out of my lungs.

"It's settled then," I conclude, "you won't think of me as a stalker if I pay you a short visit every day." I don't intend to keep my visits too short, though, but I don't have to tell her now.

"I will think of you as a very kind person, Fox, and I will be looking forward to your visit every day."

She sounds almost giddy and my heart bursts.

"Good."

 _Wonderful! Marvelous! Splendid!_

I part from her more easily today than yesterday, now that I know that I will see her again tomorrow and that she's looking forward to seeing me.

I'm relieved and full of hope for the first time in three months, hope that I will wake up from this nightmare eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

"Fox?"

"Yes?"

"I need to ask you something," she says and I can see she's struggling with herself.

It's the first time I'm in her room. Until now, we've met in the park or in the leisure room or on the terrace or in the little library or anywhere else is this goddamn clinic she's not allowed to leave. When I got in today, I asked at the reception where she was in what we agreed on would be the standard procedure every time I wanted to meet her.

We did a lot of things together in the past three weeks. We took several strolls through the park (she wants to keep an eye on that little duckling), played a few games of backgammon (a game I didn't know she was so good at), I treated her ice cream at the clinic cafeteria (she still likes cookies-and-cream, I was happy to see something hasn't changed), we read the paper together on a park bench in the sun (she handed me the sports section without asking and when I looked at her she just said, 'I thought you'd be interested in sports.'), we even attended one of those stupid leisure activities the clinic offers and went to a pottery class together (she made a coffee mug, I made a fruit bowl).

Once in a while, she asks me how my wife is doing and my pulse always skyrockets because I'm supposed to make up a white lie. I hate lying to her, but Dr. Pratt isn't getting tired of telling me her memory needs to come back on its own, that I mustn't tell her who I am.

If it only wasn't so damn hard.

I catch myself staring at her when she's not looking, silently praying she doesn't notice my gaze. If she does, I hope she does not read my infinite love and devotion for her in my eyes, nor the pain which keeps holding my heart hostage. Sometimes, I sit on my hands because they threaten to touch her in a way they're not allowed to and in places they're not allowed either.

My time with her fills me with joy and sadness at the same time.

So I am here in her room now, looking around. It's a very usually furnished room with a bed, a tiny desk, and a loveseat with a small coffee table meant to accommodate visitors she hasn't had so far. Everything is functional, the ordinary furniture, the wipeable floor, the bathroom at the size of a telephone booth. No bath tub for my Scully, I bet she's missing it a lot. No wonder she spends as much time outside of this room as possible.

I can't help wondering why she's called me in here today.

"What is it?" I ask, a bit apprehensive about what's going to happen.

She hesitates, which deepens my gut feeling. She bites her lower lip like she always does when she's nervous. What's upsetting her this much?

"You'll probably think I'm being silly, but I have to know."

"Know what? You can ask me anything...Kelly."

The name will never roll off my lips effortlessly.

"Okay. Uhm..."

She licks her lips, takes a deep inhale, then she locks eyes with me and her stare is so intense it makes me dizzy.

"Am I the person you've actually been visiting these past weeks?"

I'm shocked to hear her ask that. My heart forgets to beat for a long moment. I'm petrified and unable to look at her.

It's very clear that it's not her memory telling her but that it's something she just assumes. I guess, my telltale behavior these past weeks has been too easy to decipher. Her brain is still able to put two and two together.

"Am I your wife, Fox?" she insists like Scully always insisted until I gave her the information about a case she knew I was hiding.

There's no use in continuing the charade, so I stare at my feet and answer, "uh...yes, you are."

"My name is Dana."

It's not a question, she just tells herself.

"Yes, Dana Katherine Scully. Doctor Dana Katherine Scully."

She frowns. "Dana Katherine Scully," she repeats slowly to get used to the sound, stretching every syllable, letting them dance on her tongue.

"Does that ring a bell?" I ask.

She shakes her head no. She massages her temples as if the pressure would set her brain into motion and provide her with the memories she so badly longs for. Then her demeanor changes from alert and curious to disenchanted and gloomy.

"No, it doesn't. Of course not. Why would it?" she says in a tone so discouraged, it makes my heart convulse.

I so want to take her in my arms, tuck her head under my chin and whisper in her ear that everything's going to be fine. But I don't dare. She knows now that we're a married couple, that we're connected, but it's just a fact to her. Like she knows that hydrogen and oxygen are connected in a water molecule. I mustn't expect her to act on her newly acquired knowledge, as much as I want her to.

"You said my name was Doctor Scully. What kind of a doctor am I?"

"You're a medical doctor. You initially specialized in the field of pathology but did your residency at a children's ward later on. You're a pediatrician now."

She squints and furrows her brows. "The first time we met, you told me that I might be a doctor. You knew who I was from the start."

I have to tell Dr. Pratt that she remembers what I told her all those weeks ago. Maybe that's a good sign.

But wait a minute! Is she angry with me? Is she blaming me for not having told her who she was?

"Yes, you're right. I mentioned you could be a doctor after you quoted medical facts about brain functions and the pathology of memory loss. You seemed so clueless about where this knowledge came from, I only tried to ease your mind," I'm defending myself.

I don't know whether it's wise to say what I'm about to say, but something else she just said hit me to the last weeks have been tugging at me. Every little remark of her that revealed her complete ignorance of who I am, of my feelings for her, and our history together had gnawed at my self-control to not shower her with information she's not ready to cope with. And now I am at a point where I can take no more.

"And it wasn't the first time we met," I say to her.

She's distracted, probably still marveling her becoming a pediatrician after having been a pathologist.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It wasn't the first time we met," I repeat and try to sound matter-of-fact and not heartbroken that I have to remind her. "The day I found you here and joined you on that bench. We're married for five years and know each other for many more. Of course, I knew who you were."

"If you knew who I was, why didn't you tell me? Why did you lie to me for so long?"

"The doctors told me not to tell you anything. They said you needed the chance to remember yourself. The more I talked you into something, the lesser the chance you'd get your memories back, they warned me. And I didn't lie to you. I said I was visiting my wife, and that was the truth."

"You said she was sleeping or getting treatments or talking to the doctor whenever I asked you about her. Those were lies!"

Shit, she's really worked up. Her voice is trembling, her tone is reproachful, and I can see she's trying to keep angry tears at bay. I hope she won't start crying.

 _Please, don't cry! What am I supposed to do when you cry?_

Don't upset her, I hear Doctor Pratt tell me in the back of my head and I have the feeling I am doing just that right now.

"Okay, yes, those were lies. White lies, though. Little white lies. Doctor's orders."

I give her an apologetic one-shoulder shrug and try my pouty lower lip and puppy eyes on her. They've always done their job.

She looks at me and I'm relieved to see her face soften. Good, that hasn't changed. She's still susceptible to my I'm-so-sorry-but-I-can't-help-it maneuver.

"It must have been very difficult for you to keep the charade up. To play that game."

"It wasn't a game," I say mechanically. Not one I enjoyed playing anyway.

"No, I guess not. Sorry."

I hear sympathy threaded through her voice and it touches me deeply. I can't believe that although she's got so to deal with, she still finds the strength to care for others.

She sits down on the little loveseat in her room and pats on spot next to her. After I've lowered myself she takes my arm and puts it around her shoulder.

I am absolutely thrilled!

It's the first time I'm allowed to touch her as her husband and not as a casual acquaintance, so I press her to my side and gently stroke her upper arm. When she puts her head on my shoulder and I can smell her hair, I'm in heaven. Her hair smells different, though. She's not using her favorite shampoo, that's for sure. How could she? She doesn't remember what it is! I make a mental note to bring her her favorite brand. I have a started bottle sitting in our shower at home, one I sniffed at once in a while when I was in need of some of her.

I gladly notice that she relaxes into my chest. After a couple of minutes she needed to get used to the sensation, I assume, maybe digging for some kind of remembrance, she picks up our conversation.

"Tell me about our marriage, Fox. Do we have a good relationship?"

What an odd question that is!

I embrace her tighter and it feels good to have her this close.

"Yes, we have a very good relationship, actually. The best relationship I've ever had. We're not only spouses but also best friends."

"Why is my last name Scully and yours Mulder?"

"I'm not really fond of my first name, and when we started working together I asked you to call me Mulder and I called you Scully in return. We've gotten so used to it that we didn't change it when we became involved, and we still go by it. To the bewilderment of other people I might add."

"We work together?" She pulls away to look at me. "Are you also a doctor?"

"No. We were Special Agents with the FBI, working on unsolved mysterious cases called the X-Files."

She pushes herself off my body to sit upright and shakes her head in disbelief.

"You've got to be kidding! I am an FBI agent? I thought you said I was a pediatrician."

"You are a pediatrician. Now. But I also mentioned that you used to be a pathologist. A forensic pathologist, to be precise. That's how they partnered us up. We were partners for eight years."

"Wow! I don't know what to say."

"We left the Bureau six years ago due to circumstances that are too complicated for you to worry about now. You went back into the medical field and I started writing books."

"Fiction or non-fiction?"

"Well, from my point of view, it's non-fiction but a lot of people don't share my opinion. Some even say it's science-fiction," I deadpan.

"Do I?"

"You?" I look at her. "Well, you..."

I don't know how to explain to her what her indefinite trust and her unconditional loyalty has meant to me all those years. How the knowledge that she'd put herself on the line for me without as much as the blinking of an eye boosted me. She was the first person in my life, and has been the only one ever since, I knew I could always rely on no matter what, who always deemed it worth to listen to my theories and ideas, who always backed me up.

"You are awesome."

"Hmm, that doesn't really answer my question."

She puts her head back on my shoulder.

"It answers every question," I solely reply.

"So we're deeply in love," she figures.

"I would say so, yes."

"You said you had a son. William. Was that the truth or a lie?"

 _Can we continue talking about how much we love each other, please?_

"Do you want to know all at once?"

"If he is also my son, yes, I want to know."

"Can we talk about our son some other time?"

I hope that by using the distinctive pronoun I've already answered her question. I can't help but stiffen and I guess my voice reveals my uneasiness because she asks, "Is it a sad story?" and I only nod. I close my eyes to keep the tears that start pricking behind my eyelids from falling.

She poises for a moment, slowing down her respiration. I can see she's taking inventory of her reminiscences. I've observed her hundreds of times in moments like these, moments of utmost focus, searching the remote parts of her brain for a scientific fact or a piece of knowledge she knew resided there somewhere. Right now, she's fighting for another shred of her old life, and it's so obvious how hard she tries until, at some point, she gives up. Her frown recedes, her neck muscles relax, and her vacant expression softens. She's done thinking but her whole body posture tells me she hasn't found what she was looking for.

Heaving a deep sigh, she finally shares her thoughts with me.

"I remember that when you told me your...our...son's name, William, my heart felt heavy. It touched a chord within me, like something got short-circuited, but I couldn't make anything of it. I still can't. One day, you are going to tell me the whole story, aren't you?"

I pull her a little closer.

"I will."

"Just tell me one thing, Fox. Does he live?"

Although I can't be a hundred percent sure, I answer, "yes, he lives."

"Oh, good," she whispers.

I'm relieved that it seems to be enough for her at the moment. I'm sure she'll come back to it, and I will be as incapable of telling her the whole truth as I am now. If I could only spare her the details. It'd be something good coming out of this fucking amnesia after all if she were spared the memory of having been forced to give up her son.

"Would you like to kiss me?"

I can't believe what she just asked me, but, God, yes!

"Uh...if you're okay with it."

"I guess I should, as your wife, I mean."

She lifts her head off my shoulder once more and turns to sit opposite me. She takes my hands in hers and looks at them.

"You've got nice hands. Big and strong, but also soft and warm."

She pulls one up to her cheek and lets me cup her face with it.

"Are you sure you want this?" I ask her and silently pray for her to say yes.

"We kissed before, didn't we?"

"Sure."

"Much?"

"Well, we weren't exactly lovey-dovey teenagers who made out always and everywhere, but yes, we kissed quite a bit."

"Okay then, let's do it."

Now that does remind me of my early teenage years when fourteen-year-old Laura Fitch and I decided to practice some French-kissing in her treehouse. She had closed her eyes, had pursed her lips, and when I hesitated she said, 'C'mon Fox, let's just get it over and done with!' I hope Scully just doesn't want to get it over and done with.

"You don't owe me," I assure her.

"I know. I want to."

I think she really does. Maybe she's curious what our kissing was like, maybe she thinks it might bring back some memories.

Jesus, I hope it does!

Her skin is so soft under my palm. I lean toward her, slowly, and she tilts her head to meet me. And then our lips touch and I'm electrified. A shiver runs through my entire body and I close my eyes to enjoy the moment. It's exactly the same sensation as when we last kissed. She feels the same, tastes the same.

Oh, how I want to put my tongue into her mouth, to savor her completely!

However, I'm afraid to push too far, so it's only my lips on hers. It's a heavenly sensation still. For a regular kiss, it takes quite long, but I cannot bring myself to break it. Who knows when I'll get another chance, if ever. So I pull back just a little to change the angle, then I press my mouth on hers again.

I feel her hands on my neck, a touch so feathery it almost slips my attention. And then she parts her lips.

She really and truly parts her lips and invites me in!

I have to muster up all my willpower not to dart in forcefully all the way up to her throat. I'm kind of proud of myself that I manage to gently let the tip of my tongue find its way into her mouth, licking and nibbling at her lower lip the way she likes it. When I move on, I am thrilled when I feel her welcoming me. Our tongues touch and I think I can hear a silent moan escaping her mouth.

What a wonderful sound!

I brush along the insides of her cheeks and can't keep myself from tickling her palate.

Oh my God, this too good to be true! I'm kissing my Scully, I really do!

She's not responding as passionately as I'm used to, but I take what I get. I'm starting to get aroused which isn't a good thing because it leaves my brain dysfunctional as all the blood is on its way downward to another body part. An increase of passion has been set in motion and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm a slave to my desires, I simply have to kiss her harder, have to entwine my hungry tongue with hers, have to suck in her lower lip, have to press our mouths together. All I manage is to keep my hands from grabbing her breasts, instead, they squeeze her waist and pull her closer.

She reciprocates to some extent, but at a certain point, she stiffens. Her hands are leaving my neck and are placed on my chest, and they push me away. Gently, but with determination.

I overdid it! I'm such a dickweed! Why did I have to overdo it?

When we pull apart, her lips are swollen and I can read from her face that she feels overpowered. I bet now she regrets her offer to have let me kiss her.

What if she never allows me to kiss her again?

Somehow I hoped my kiss would bring back some memories, that kissing me she would remember me. Remember us.

 _You might have gotten a little above yourself, Mulder! As if one of your kisses could do what numerous sessions of therapy and the most sophisticated medication administered by the best doctors aren't able to accomplish!_

"Oh my," she breathes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "you were a bit desperate, weren't you?"

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, Scully, I...I got a little carried away."

"A little?"

"Okay, maybe more than a little. I'm truly sorry. I didn't mean to be so rough. It's just that, I, uh...I missed you."

"That was obvious."

She's tucking her hair behind her ears with both hands now.

"Don't get me wrong, Fox, it was nice and I enjoyed it. You're a good kisser, which makes me congratulate myself on my taste in men, but it was just a bit too frenzied for me in the end."

"Sure, sure! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

 _Stammering your apologies over and over again won't make it any better! You're such an idiot!_

Wait! Did she say that I was a good kisser and that she enjoyed it?

I stare at her and something in my eyes must've appealed to her, for the uneasiness is gone from her face and she smiles at me.

"It's okay, don't worry. I'll get over it," she chuckles. "Actually, I hoped I would feel something. Something...familiar."

So she had the same hopes like me.

"I take it you didn't."

She shakes her head apologetically and looks at me, desperation and sadness etched into her face. She averts her eyes and I hope she won't proceed to cry now. I lift her chin to make her look at me.

"Everything's gonna be fine, Scully!"

It's interesting how easily I got rid of her alias name. I've already forgotten what I called her those last few weeks.

I have her back! I have my Scully back!

"We take it one step at a time. We have all the time in the world."

"What if I never remember you?"

"Then I'll make you fall in love with all over again," I tell her with as much confidence in my voice as I can gather.

She looks me in the eye, an amused smirk on her face. Her eyebrow is taking a hike which is so Scully that I have to laugh.

She's definitely in there.

My Scully is locked in there somewhere, she hasn't become someone else, like the doctors predicted was possible. She's still my beloved Scully, and I don't care how much time it takes to let her morph back into her previous persona.

I don't fucking care!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

Now that she knows who she is - she knows, she does not remember - Dr. Pratt sees no reason to keep her family away from her any longer. So I have Maggie and Bill Jr. with me today when I gently knock at the door to her room.

I tried to prepare her mother. I told her to brace herself for looking into a pair of unresponsive eyes, that it was possible Dana would not remember her own mother. Margaret Scully listened to me like she always listened to me when I was giving her the facts about her daughter's medical condition. There were times I had to do it on a monthly basis almost. Her son, of course, not really a fan of mine, didn't spare me anything. He told me for the umpteenth time that this was all my fault, that I messed up his sister's life and brought so much sorrow upon his family in my pathetic pursuit of little green men that he'd like to see me rot in hell.

Before I open the door, I throw Maggie an encouraging look, avoiding Bill's eyes.

"Hey, Scully, it's me," I greet her and the familiar words warm my soul. "Here's someone who wants to see you."

I argued with Dr. Pratt whether or not to tell her in advance that her folks would be coming. He deemed it wiser not to, hoping it would give her memory a boost. I'm not so sure about it but doctor's orders are doctor's orders, and he's the specialist. Specialist in the field of amnesia that is, not in the mystery that is Dana Scully. In this field, I am the specialist, and I fear that if she becomes aware that she doesn't even recognize her own mother, and chances are uncomfortably high she won't, Dr. Pratt's plan backfires and sends her into an even deeper state of hopelessness than she's already in.

She turns around when she hears my voice and her face lightens up when she sees me. My heart jumps a little.

"Fox!" she cheers, and I can hear her mother gasp at the unfamiliar name coming out of her mouth.

I go over to her and place a quick peck on her cheek, the greeting ritual we've established ever since she found out we were married. Then I turn around to motion for Maggie and Bill, who are still glued to the threshold, to step into the room.

"Scully, I don't want you to get fed up with me as your only visitor, so I brought you two new ones," I try to take the pressure off the situation and ease the atmosphere a bit.

Her eyes wander from me to her mother and brother and my darkest forebodings are coming to fulfillment.

She looks at them, she looks at me, then back at them. When her eyes meet mine again, I see plain horror in them. She realizes that she's supposed to know these people, probably understanding that the elderly woman looking at her so affectionately can't be anyone but her mother and that the man, who's of a similar age and has the same facial features as her, very probably is her brother. She silently pleads with me to help her out, and I silently curse myself for not having stood up to Dr. Pratt and his stupid idea of confronting her with her family unprepared.

I put my hand on the small of her back to let her feel I'm right there behind her before I tell her, "Scully, these are your mother Margaret and your older brother Bill."

"Oh."

Maggie is struggling to keep her composure. My heart aches for her. How many more times does this woman have to visit her daughter in a medical institution? How many more times does she have to fear for her daughter's wellbeing?

"Dana, Sweetheart," Maggie greets her.

"I'm sorry," Scully only says. "I...I don't..."

"It's alright," her mother soothes her, her voice so gentle, it'd put anyone at ease. "It's perfectly alright, dear. You're well, that's all that matters right now. Can I give you hug?"

Scully briefly checks with me, and although it feels good to be her confidant, I am so sorry for Maggie who considers it advisable to ask her daughter for permission to hug her.

"Sure," Scully says somewhat shyly.

Maggie closes the distance between them, cups Scully's face with one hand, and looks at her with so much motherly love in her eyes, it makes my knees wobbly. She pulls her daughter to her chest and folds her arms around her. I'm sure she tried to prevent it, but a tear rolls down her cheek when she closes her eyes.

Scully's initial stiff reaction, a clear sign that she's overwhelmed by the situation, softens that much that in the end, she hugs her mother back.

"Please excuse an old woman's soppiness," Maggie says when she pulls back.

The Scully women are compassionate and empathetic; like mother, like daughter. Scully senses that the person in front of her loves her from the bottom of her heart, even though she doesn't recognize her.

"That's alright," she says with a warm smile on her face and wipes the tear off Maggie's cheek. "Mother? Mama, mommy, mom?"

"Mom," Maggie sobs, "you call me mom."

Bill Jr. groans.

"I'm really sorry to make you cry. Did Fox tell you about the amnesia?"

"Yes, he did. He said your memory will come back eventually, that we simply have to give it some time."

"Hopefully, yes. It's also called amnestic syndrome," Scully replies, unable to shed her doctor's skin.

Maggie takes both of Scully's hands in hers and squeezes them tenderly.

"I will pray for you, Dana."

"Thank you...mom."

When her hands are released, Scully turns to Bill.

"And you are my brother?"

Bill clears his throat. "Uhm, yes. My name's William, but I go by Bill. Bill Jr.," he introduces himself awkwardly, before being asked what he used to be called by her.

Scully tilts her head and looks at me questioningly. "Our son isn't the only William in our family?"

"Uh, no. There are quite a few Williams in our two families," I supply.

Bill turns his head and throws angry daggers at me. "You told her about William? How could you?" he spits out.

"Bill! Please!" his mother intervenes sharply, and Scully explains, "I asked. Fox didn't want to at first and he didn't tell me really much. I know it's a sad story. We agreed to talk about him some other time."

"Tsk," is all Bill has to say about it.

I can't blame him for loathing me. I used to have a little sister myself and protected her the best I could. I failed once, and it has darkened my life forever.

Scully looks at me with a quizzical expression on her face. Her brother's hostility is so apparent, she must feel it. She's sensitive and hasn't lost her observing skills and insight into the human nature just because she can't recall who she is.

I shrug, trying to tell her non-verbally that I'd explain later. It's her mother, the wonderful, warm-hearted, and good-natured Margaret Scully, who eases the tension in the room.

"Sweetheart..." she starts but then hesitates a second, "may I call you sweetheart?"

"Of course," Scully answers, taking her mother's hands in hers. "I may not recognize you, but I can read in your eyes that we have a strong connection. You look very worried, but there's no need to be worried. I'm fine. I'm perfectly healthy except for having no access to certain parts of my brain. I just have to be patient until the memories come back."

I have to give her kudos for trying to soothe her mother. What she just said is what the doctors keep telling her, and I know there are days she can no longer believe them. That she's now assuaging her mother's sorrow with the scenario spelt out for her like a mantra by the medical staff gives me hope that she's still willing to believe that eventually, she'll heal, that the bad days she's having, the days filled with hopelessness and pessimism, are just part of the usual ups and downs every patient goes through during a serious illness. It was the same when she fought against her cancer, and she pulled through that one eventually. She's going to pull through this as well.

She has to!

Maggie strokes Scully's cheek in a comforting gesture and smiles at her so warmly for Scully's heart to melt. It must be melting. Mine would. I was never looked at that compassionately by my mother. I wished I was.

"Remember you're not alone, Dana. You have a family that loves you and cares about you immensely. Whenever you have the feeling you want me to be here, don't hesitate to call. Please! Can you promise me to do that?"

Scully nods, visibly touched by her mother's words.

"It's like I told you when I found you here, Scully," I interject. "Most certainly, people were looking for you. How could you ever believe you weren't loved and sadly missed?"

Maggie throws me a gentle look and mouths a silent 'thank you'. Bill is pacing the room, not even trying to hide how disgruntled he is. I feel he's got something on the tip of his tongue he has difficulties keeping inside his mouth, and I bet it's nothing very flattering for me. I don't have to wait long for it to sputter out of him.

"If you had stopped dragging her into those ridiculous cases of yours, Mulder, like I asked you over and over again, none of this would've have happened and there would've been no need for you to tell her she had a family," he pants, his contempt for me filling the entire room.

I'm not surprised. That's exactly what I expected from him, although I hoped he'd be able to keep his dislike of me at bay for just this one afternoon. Not because I can't take his accusations. I can. I'm so used to them I mostly just don't listen, but for Scully, the unfriendly vibes between her brother and me must be somewhat disconcerting, and for that, I'm angry at him. In his sister's interest, he could've bitten his tongue once. Just once.

"Bill," Maggie says, in a conciliating tone this time, "it's not Fox's fault. He found Dana here, and for that, we should be grateful."

Thankfulness is not a sentiment he's willing to bestow on me, so he counters his mother's generous words with a dismissive snort.

Scully's eyes are flying back and forth between the three of us. I can imagine her discomfort at the exchange of these rather harsh and unfriendly remarks among us.

"Fox said you were my older brother, Bill. I take it we have at least one more, younger brother?"

"Yes," Bill answers her, his face contorted. "Charlie. But he's estranged. He's the youngest of us four."

As soon as the words have tumbled out of his mouth, I want to shake him for his insensitivity. He solved one mystery for Scully but simultaneously brought up two new ones.

"Four of us?" she hence asks.

As both Maggie and Bill fall silent, seemingly overwhelmed by the situation unfolding itself in front of us, I step in to answer the question.

"You're number three in the line-up, Scully. Bill's the first-born, then there's your sister Melissa, you, and Charlie, the youngest."

"I see. Charlie isn't here because he's estranged with the family, like you said, Bill, but what about Melissa? Why hasn't she come with you? Don't we get along well?"

I can see that Maggie is fighting with her emotions, trying badly to keep tears from forming in her eyes. As I don't want Bill to spit out another inconsiderate explanation, I hurry to give Scully the information she deserves, mentally slapping myself in the face for having her go through this ordeal. I could've prepared her for this, sparing her having to cope with one painful detail about her family after another. If I hadn't listened to Dr. Pratt, I would've told her the family story beforehand and mother and daughter could've used their time to bond instead of walking on eggshells around each other.

"You and Melissa got along very well, Scully. You weren't apart much and shared a room as kids. The reason that she's not here today is that she's not around anymore. She died more than a decade ago in an accident."

I know I'm bending the truth a little, but under no circumstances am I going to tell her now that her sister was shot in her apartment and that she herself had actually been the target.

"And my father is also dead, isn't he?"

"Yes, dear," Maggie answers this one. "We lost him in 1994. He was a Navy captain and called you Starbuck."

Scully's hearty chuckle fills the room, a rare and therefore uplifting sound but also a bit out of place at this particular moment.

"Starbuck, huh? And I guess I called him Ahab," she says, still chuckling and looking at us innocently with a smile on her face, only to be stared at by three sets of flabbergasted eyes. The room has fallen so silent from one moment to the next, one would hear a needle drop to the floor. Maggie puts her hand over her mouth, but a startled gasp escapes anyway.

"What? It was a joke! I've been reading Moby Dick," Scully explains, pointing to the bedside table where the mentioned book lies face up.

"Dana," Maggie whispers, "you did indeed call your father Ahab. We all did. Was that a memory? Do you remember him? You had such a strong bond to your father, above all, it would be understandable for you to remember him." Her voice is wavering a little.

"I d-don't know," Scully stammers. She frowns and one can literally see her racking her brain. Then, she shakes her head and casts her eyes down. "No, I don't think it was a memory, more likely a coincidence because of what I read in the book."

Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe not. Though I refuse to believe that it was a simple coincidence she picked Moby Dick from the clinic library. How high are the chances she'd choose exactly that particular copy out of a variety of hundreds of books? Not very! She was guided by something, and the same something let her make what she thought was a joke about her father's nickname. What we've just seen is the first little step in the right direction.

I know it!

I feel a glint of hope flaring in my chest. And I'm relieved that Scully's alleged joke has distracted everyone from Melissa's absence.

Scully closes her eyes and massages her temples. This conversation has clearly taken its toll on her her.

I know that Maggie is sensitive enough to notice her daughter's need for rest, but I'm not so sure about Bill, therefore I suggest, "I think we could all use a break. Why don't we defer the rest of the family history to some other time?"

"Are you throwing us out, Mulder? Who do you think you are? Her guard?" Bill bellows.

I grit my teeth so hard to keep myself from replying something impolite, my jaws ache.

"No, I'm not. I'm just saying that it's been a lot of information, and I want Scully to take her time to let it all sink in."

"Oh! _You_ want her to-" Bill launches into another verbal attack but is cut off by his mother.

"Bill! Fox is right, it's been enough for today!" Maggie's tone is so authoritative, even Bill gets that his mother does not tolerate any dissent in this matter. She shoots him a severe look, then continues, her worried eyes resting on her daughter's face, "I hope we didn't overwhelm you, sweetheart. I'd hate myself if we made you uncomfortable."

"I'm fine. Thanks for coming and being so kind to me."

Maggie's can't suppress a sob.

"You're my daughter, Dana, I'd do everything for you."

"I realize that, mom. Just...give me some time, okay?"

Maggie nods, pressing her lips together to keep another endearment from slipping out, I suppose.

My heart breaks seeing mother and daughter so much in distress, but I'm glad that the word 'mom' rolling so effortlessly off Scully's tongue had the capacity to ease Maggie's emotional pain. A splinter of joy has lit up in her face when she heard her daughter call her mom and the troubled lines on her forehead have receded a little.

"All the time in the world," Maggie whispers, "I'm just so happy to have you back."

Her shoulders are trembling now and I'm afraid she's about to break down.

Scully has the same feeling evidently because she takes a step toward her and slides her hands up and down both her mother's arms a few times.

"I'm here, and I won't go anywhere," she assures her. "Fox is keeping an eye on me."

I hear Bill huff somewhere behind me, but I don't give a damn. What's more important is Margaret Scully recomposing herself. Her eyes are radiant, her smile is genuine, and that's enough for me to relax.

We arrange to meet again in about two weeks time. Scully promises to call her mother in the meantime to let her know how she's doing. Maggie caresses Scully's cheek and squeezes my hand when she says her goodbye. Bill smiles affectionately at his sister and hugs her but doesn't deign to look at me on his way out. I couldn't care less.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Scully turns around, crosses her arms in front of her chest, and throws me a challenging look. She doesn't need to phrase the question which I'm convinced is burning on her tongue.

"Your brother and I...we aren't exactly best friends," I tell her without beating about the bush.

"No kidding? I wouldn't have noticed," she replies, sarcasm inking her voice, "but why?"

Of course, I could write a book about my screwed up relationship with Bill Scully Jr., but I try to keep the story short. I don't want to disturb her any further than she already is.

"You were my partner and I got you involved in some pretty dangerous cases, during the course of which you got hurt more than once and he blamed me for it."

"Couldn't I have asked for a transfer if I hadn't wanted to remain your partner?"

"Yes."

"But I didn't."

"No."

It's still a mystery to me and my greatest fortune that she stayed with me and the X-Files despite all the horrible things that happened to her in the wake of our work.

"So, I guess I accepted danger as part of my life, hence it wasn't your fault I got hurt. My brother has no right to blame you for my decisions."

I can't believe she's defending me. She hardly knows anything about the dynamics between us but she draws all the right conclusions. Either this is all so obvious and self-explaining, which I doubt, or her unprejudiced attitude and relentless aspiration for self-determination are so deeply rooted within her that they guide her even in her current state of lacking an understanding of who exactly she is.

One way or another, Bill only adds some extra pounds on my shoulders which are already loaded with the guilt I put there myself.

"He's your older brother, Scully. Older brothers have to protect their little sisters. And in a way he's right. If you had never met me..."

I can't finish the sentence because the mere imagination that she never entered my life makes my stomach turn.

"I fell in love with you, so the relationship was satisfactory for both sides, I guess," she says with a sheepish grin.

I'm glad she's seeing it this way. I'm so relieved she's gotten used to the idea that we're lovers. She still doesn't feel it, is still immune to the chemistry between us, but she embraces the concept. The scientist in her won't stop gathering information about us and her life with me. I hope that one day she'll not only _know_ she's my wife but also remember what it was like. And, of course, I pray she'll still want to be with me when she does.

Today's been a good day, tough. One step further into the right direction. Learning she's a daughter and a sister gave her two more benchmarks to redraw the map of her life. There are still many blank areas on it, but I'm determined to continue helping her fill these blind spots. If necessary, one after the other, as long as it takes until she knows how to navigate through her past, present, and future. I want to be her beacon, her anchor, the person who leads her when she veers off course and who steadies her whenever she falters.

 _I am your rock, Scully! Lean on me!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

Scully's not good today.

I realized right away, even before having spoken a single word with her. Stephanie, the receptionist, told me she was sorry but she didn't know where my wife was, that was the first indication because usually Stephanie knows where Scully is because Scully always lets her know so she can tell me. That's the procedure we arranged for me to meet her, but today Stephanie just shrugged apologetically and informed me that there was no message left for me.

So I tried Scully's room, the library, the lounge, the cafeteria, the gym, even Dr. Pratt's office. She was nowhere to be found. I thought there was only very little chance for her to be outside as the weather was rather nasty, rainy and windy, but lacking any other idea where she might be I gave it a shot anyway. To my bewilderment, I spotted her sitting on a park bench by the pond, unprotected against the rain, motionless, with sagging shoulders, her head hanging, all powerless and dejected.

No, she's definitely not good today.

"Scully?" I say when I reach her, not daring to touch her out of fear to startle her.

She doesn't react.

"Hey, Scully, what's the matter? Why are you sitting out here in the rain?"

I hold the umbrella Stephanie gave me over the both of us, a large gray thang with the name of the clinic imprinted on it.

She still doesn't respond to my showing up at her side.

When I left her last night, after having had dinner together in the dining hall and watching a movie in her room, she was okay. I wonder what happened to cause a mood change that drastic.

I cautiously graze the back of her hand which rests on her thigh. It's freezing cold.

"Dana," I try her first name and it works. She jerks, not really a reaction I wanted to cause, but I'm relieved to get any reaction at all. "What's wrong?" I ask again.

It takes forever for her to talk, and then "It's gone," is all she says. I'm shocked by how faint and powerless her voice sounds.

"What is gone?"

"The little duckling," she sobs. "The one I was feeding when it had just hatched. It's gone. It didn't make it apparently."

"How do you know it didn't just leave the nest?"

"Because it's the only one missing, the others are still with their mother. It didn't make it. It was too little and too weak to make it. It never really had the ghost of a chance."

I know where this is going, why this little duckling's fate troubles her that much. I put my arm around her shoulder. She's soaking wet. If I don't get her back into the building soon and into some dry, warm clothes, she'll catch a nasty cold, that's for sure.

"Scully, you're a scientist. You're familiar with nature's law of the survival of the fittest. Maybe it wasn't as tough as you hoped it was."

"Maybe," she says and rests her head on my shoulder. Drops drip from her wet hair and soak the fabric of my sweater.

"Scully, this has absolutely nothing to do with your recovery. I know the little duckling held a special place in your heart but the fact that it didn't make it doesn't mean that you're also not going to make it."

"I know," she whispers, "but I'm sad it's gone."

I press a kiss on her scalp and have the feeling I'm kissing an ice block. "Scully, we have to get you out of this rain. Suffering from pneumonia will by no means be beneficial to your healing process."

She nods and willingly lets me lead her back to clinic complex and to her room. I'm waiting while she's under the shower, the idea that she's naked on the other side of the wall somewhat intriguing I have to admit. When she emerges from the bathroom, dressed but with damp hair, I'm leaving through one of the medical journals that are orderly stacked on the coffee table; one more indication that she still is who she is.

"Are you warm again?" I ask.

"Yes. I have to blow-dry my hair and then I would like to get a cup of hot tea. Would you mind taking me downstairs to the cafeteria and having one?"

"No, of course not," I answer, "my treat."

Fifteen minutes of thorough blow-drying, two cups of tea, and a chocolate muffin later, we sit opposite each other in a booth at the rear end of the little cafeteria. I'm surprised she ate half of that muffin I offered her rather in an act of courtesy than really believing she would take it; some conducts of hers are simply new to me. The place is full of patients and their visitors, all of them absorbed in their conversations and focussed on themselves. We're definitely not alone in here but then again nobody seems to take notice of us.

"Tell me about how we became involved, Fox," she breaks the silence without prelude.

I'm a bit startled and attribute it to the secluded, somewhat private setting that she's addressing such a personal, intimate detail of our relationship in public.

I clear my throat. "Well, it took us a while."

My wording has a fair chance to make it to the final round of the understatement of the year contest, but I'm a bit afraid of the topic so I decide to remain vague.

"It wasn't love at first sight between us?" she asks.

"No," I chuckle, "not really."

If you were to describe two polar opposites of falling in love, two detrimentally contrasting antagonisms, it would have to be the phenomena of love at first sight and our homeopathic doses of romance over the course of seven years.

"When did we start dating then?"

 _Remember, Mulder, no lies!_

"Uh, we never really dated."

"What do you mean we never dated? Then how did we get involved? Or do you mean we didn't date officially? I bet there are rules and regulations regarding fraternization among fellow agents."

"There are, and at a certain point the fear that they might split us up was in our heads, but it was not the reason for us not dating."

"Then what was?"

If I only knew how to explain without opening a can of worms.

"I guess I never really felt adequate. I wanted you to have a normal life."

"A normal life?" She sneers. "And what kind of life did you foresee for me?"

"A devoted husband. A bunch of cute kids. A nice house with a picket fence and an oak tree in the front yard."

"Ouch, how cliché!" She grimaces as if she had a toothache.

I can't believe what I'm hearing. The mocking ring to her voice disturbs me.

I remember the night we cuddled in a motel bed in Oregon shortly before I was taken. She had crawled into my bed because she was cold and dizzy. I practically told her the same thing, that I wanted for her to get more out of life than following questionable leads to weird cases through the country. I told her that there had to be an end to the craziness that was her life, totally oblivious to the fact that the die had already been cast. She was pregnant, alas, we didn't know. Cells were dividing in her womb, having the potential to actually give her the greatest of joys but were actually about to precipitate her into the greatest misery; all because of me.

 _Was it so wrong of me to want to spare you, Scully? Look where holding on to me has gotten you! To a mental health institution, eventually robbed of literally everything, not only your career, your health, your beloved sister and son, but of your entire past!_

I'm getting nauseous.

"Anyway," she adds in a more neutral tone, "why couldn't the two of us have a normal life together?"

"Because I'm a wacko," I croak, "isn't it obvious?"

The honest laugh that escapes her chest eases the tension in my system. I'm able to open my fists and relax my jaw. I didn't even realize I was clenching them both to an extent that was painful.

"You're not a wacko!"

"How do you know?" I ask, unable to share the good impression she has of me.

She takes my hands in hers. The warmth of her touch does some more to soothe me. She looks at me and her eyes couldn't be any clearer and forthcoming.

"I just know."

She sounds so convinced, so assured. I almost believe her.

"Anyhoo, we ended up as a couple." She gives my hands a little squeeze before she adds, "so at some point we must have crossed the line. Fox Mulder, have you seduced me with those beautiful hazel eyes of yours?"

If it weren't so damn unlikely, I'd say she's flirtatious with me. She's definitely gazing, casting her eyes up coquettishly. And her voice! Where does this enticing tone come from all of a sudden?

Despite my sitting position, the room starts spinning. I have to close my eyes briefly and shake my head to break the spell to be able to talk again. My palms are getting sweaty and I feel like I want to wipe them dry on my thighs but it'd mean I have to pull my hands out of her grip and I don't want to do that. I try for a wee joke instead to hide my excitement

"As much as I'd like to claim my irresistible charms and damn good looks to be the deciding factors for you not to pack your things and flee from my office after our first case..." I make a short pause to inhale deeply, "I'd rather say it was your integrity as an agent and your curiosity as a scientist that made you stay. All I had done was piquing your interest in the special cases of the unit I was working for at the time."

"My integrity as an agent," she repeats with a smile, "I like that. Back to the topic, though, how long did it take until you made a move on me?" she ask with a bit more urgency, but all I do is smile and purse my lips.

My worldlessness makes her stare at me. Her brows hit her hairline and her eyes are two huge questions marks. "What? What's wrong with my question?

"Nothing, actually, only that it wasn't me who set the ball rolling. It was you!"

"Huh?"

I grin at her now, laced with innuendo, and I'm amused by how her eyes widen even more in shock when I explain, "one night, in the seventh year of our partnership, I got laid."

"Are you saying I laid you?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"What? No!" she shrieks, her voice a bit too loud and a cadence too high. Some people pause their conversations and turn their heads in our direction.

She blushes. Oh, how sweet!

"Yes, Scully!" I whisper.

"I would never hit on you!"

"Can you be so sure? You don't remember anything of your past, so how do you know you never did what I just told you you did?"

"I simply know!" She leans backward and lets go of my hands to tug at her shirt and remove an invisible lint. "It's just not possible! I...I'm not that kind of person!"

I am a bit amused by the consternation resonating in her voice I must say. I can't keep myself from pushing a little further. "And what kind is that, Scully?"

"The man-eating vamp who drags her poor co-worker into bed in the desperate search of a sexual partner."

A hearty laughter erupts from my chest. I laugh so hard, I almost choke. If she knew how far from the truth she is. I'm swallowing down another chuckle, feeling bad for having fun at her expense.

"My dearest Scully," I lean forward and gaze at her, hoping my eyes are as clear and honest as hers were a few minutes ago, "you were nothing like that! You simply were gutsier than me. You knew my feelings for you were exactly the same as your feelings for me. You were fed up with suppressing your desires just like I was, only that I didn't dare to act on them. Believe me, you didn't need to drag me anywhere. One single word from you was enough for me to follow you willingly."

"What word?" she whispers.

"Tonight."

"That was all I said?"

"Actually, you said, 'I want you, Fox Mulder, tonight.'"

"That's six words," she states with the stubbornness of a little girl who doesn't want to admit she stole a cookie despite her chocolate-smeared mouth.

"Argh," I huff, "do you always have to be so meticulous? _Tonight_ is the key word here, don't you see? I knew you wanted me..."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I knew! But hearing it come out of your mouth in such a commanding voice in combination with the word tonight simply short-circuited my system. I was turned on like hell."

She bites her lower lip until it's red and swollen, mumbling something to herself under her breath. I lean backward again to give her the privacy for an inner dialogue she apparently needs to have with herself. I get a word now and then, torn out of context. I hear 'inconceivable', 'tingling', and 'sensual'. Especially the last one lets my heart beat a little faster. She most certainly was sensual that night. Very sensual. Unbelievably, irresistibly sensual.

Eventually, she's done talking to herself and lifts her head abruptly, locking her eyes with mine. With an amount of self-assuredness in her voice that surprises me a bit, she establishes, "so, I beguiled you into our first night together."

I only hum affirmatively and nod.

"And after that first night, did I always have to persuade you to make love to me?"

Interesting, I think there's a bit of apprehension threaded in her voice. Does she really believe I needed to be told to make love to her?

I wished I could show her how much I desire her up to this very day, but we're on a strictly platonic level. We're married but the consummation of our marriage is ineligible for the time being. A single passionate kiss already made her uncomfortable, what would making a pass at her do?

"You're a beautiful, alluring woman, Scully, and I'd been attracted to you from early on. You were my best friend. I'd called you my touchstone once. I would've gone to the end of the world for you."

She stares at me during my confession, her eyes slowly but continually filling with tears until they spill over. When the first drop rolls down her cheek, my thumb is already there to wipe it away.

"Are you evading my question?"

I shake my head.

"The answer is no, Scully! No, you never had to persuade me to make love to you. Having finally been allowed to show you my utter devotion had freed me from my inhibitions, and I tried to do it with you whenever and wherever possible. You were the one to set up rules of abstinence and no-go areas."

"Like what?"

"Not while we were in the office, not even a stolen kiss in our basement lair anyone hardly ever came down to was allowed. Separate rooms while out in the field. No public display of affection within a mile from the Hoover Building. No overnight stays at the other's apartment on workdays. No commuting to work together."

"Oh my, that's a long list. Was I really so compliant with FBI rules?"

"You were a dedicated agent with a high standard of work ethic. All you tried to do was separate our private from our professional lives. And it was a good idea, even tough a challenging undertaking at times. Especially when we were staying at a motel, the connecting door between our rooms unlocked, I was tempted more than once to sneak into your room and slip under the covers with you. You always threw me out."

"And I take it you always showed me exactly the face I'm seeing right now."

"You bet!" I affirm, putting on the best pout and hangdog look I can manage.

"I took all the fun out of our relationship, didn't I?"

"Oh, we had a lot of fun! I even made you break your own rules a few times. Our boss once almost caught us in the act while I was...uh, while I was reading from your lips...not the ones in your face," I tell her with a leer.

She gasps and her eyeballs almost drop out of their sockets. Her face reminds me a little of the one she put on when Skinner had appeared in the doorframe to our office out of nowhere while I was pleasuring her.

"You pushed me under the desk just in time," I conclude with a chuckle. "I hit my head so hard I had to bite into the inside of your thigh to keep the cries of pain inside my mouth."

For me, it's a very fond memory, one which actually makes itself felt in my pants. For her, obviously, it's not. Her cheeks are flaring up in crimson red and she tucks her hair behind her ear in a nervous displacement activity. I notice she subconsciously presses her thighs together under the table.

"God, this is so embarrassing!" she groans, casting her eyes down.

Shit, I took it too far! Again!

 _I'm sorry, Scully!_

"Scully, please, there's no reason for you to be embarrassed. I'm the one who's ashamed, namely of myself. It's me who overstepped the mark, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm so sorry I put that image of us into your head." I rake my hair with both hands to keep them busy, otherwise, I might slap myself. "I...I don't know what to say."

I got carried away. Why do I get carried away all the time? I forgot for a fleeting moment that despite having gotten closer in the past few weeks, I'm still more or less a stranger to her, at least when it comes to the physical nature of our relationship. How could I have been so rude and throw that intimate, juicy little tale into her face? If things were slightly different, she had every reason to report the incident to the authorities as sexual harassment.

Her eyes zig-zag across my face. What does she see in me, I wonder. Is it the broken man who feels incomplete without his perfect other or the tactless bully who's constantly disobeying the limits.

 _Please don't doom me, Scully!_

I don't know whether the subtle study of my face has led her to any conclusions, I only fear that if it did, those conclusions might bring her to withdrawing from me. For good, in the worst case.

"You know what really makes me sad, Fox?"

'My impertinent, inexcusable behavior?' I want to supply, but only shrug. I'm such a coward.

"That one moment I feel so comfortable around you. I feel like I'm getting somewhere, like I'm beginning to understand what our relationship was like. And then, without warning, I'm punched in the stomach and I'm reminded that I know nothing about us."

I close my eyes, and a deep sigh escapes my throat. I punched her in the stomach.

"It's not your fault," she hurries to assure me as if she was able to read my angry thoughts, "and I don't blame you for getting carried away sometimes. I should be the one apologizing to you."

"Are you crazy?"

Is she crazy?

"What on earth should you be apologizing to me for?"

"You're so understanding, so patient, but...you're still a man. A man obviously very much in love with me, a man with...needs. And I'm keeping you at a distance."

"I'm fine, Scully."

That's her line, actually.

"No, you're not. You should see your face, Fox. It's written all over it how miserable you are."

"I'm miserable because of what happened to you, I'm miserable because I see how much you struggle with your situation, and I'm miserable because I can't keep my testosterone level in check, but nothing, Scully, absolutely _nothing_ you do or say makes me miserable."

She looks at me with eyes so full of doubt and uncertainty that I can't help but getting up from my chair and placing myself next to her. I'm not a bit convinced that what I do next is the right thing to do, but I fold my arm around her shoulder and pull her close to me regardless. She feels so small and fragile, I fear that if I squeeze too hard she might crumble to pieces. I pray that I'm not overdoing it again when I gently rock her. I'm filled with relief when she relaxes against my side, her head on my shoulder and her hand on my thigh.

"Everything's gonna be fine, Scully. We're...gonna be fine," I whisper into her hair.

The memory of a very similar situation washes over me like a tidal wave. I held her in a hospital hallway many years ago, after she'd been diagnosed with incurable cancer. Although the situation seemed hopeless, I believed she'd beat the terrible disease. And she did. And she will beat the amnesia as well. This thing is not life-threatening. I'm off so much better today than I was then. I don't have to fear to lose her, the odds for her recovery are so much better. So what am I even complaining about?

 _Get your act together, Mulder! Support her to the best of your ability! She relies on you, don't disappoint her!_

Today I dare say something I would've wanted to say back then as well but didn't have the courage to say out loud at the time. I was only thinking it, hoping she'd read my mind. Hoping she knew.

"I love you, Scully." I place a kiss on the top of her head and hear her stifle a silent sob. "We're gonna get through this together."

"I hope you end up being right, Fox," she breathes against my chest.

"I will."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

She asked me to take her home the other day.

Well, first she asked me where our home was and what it was like, then she told me that the doctors had cleared her to leave the clinic on condition that she make an appointment with a local psychiatrist for an ambulant treatment.

So we're approaching our house now, stirring up the dirt on the gravel road behind us. It hasn't rained in weeks and the soil is dry. She threw me a questioning look every time I took a turn further away from the city and farther out into the countryside. She furrowed her brows when I opened the gate to our premises and she's staring at our unremarkable house which comes into sight now that we've climbed the little hill that keeps it from view from the street.

"It's kinda rural, isn't it?" she states the obvious.

"We like it that way," I simply tell her. Now is not the time to explain what brought us here.

I steer the car directly in front of the porch and kill the engine. We sit in silence for a moment. Scully leans forward and peeks through the windshield at the house. She doesn't move and I can't say why. Maybe she expected something completely different. Maybe she's waiting for the memories to appear. Maybe she's afraid to take this next step toward her old life, a life she still knows so little about.

Eventually, I decide to make her take it. So I get out of the car, walk around the back in order not to block her view, open the passenger door and hold my hand out to her. When she takes it, I pull her out of the car and up the few steps onto the porch. Holding her hand, I keep the screen open with my hip and fumble the keys out of my pocket. I open the front door and step inside, but she remains rooted to the doorstep. It feels like a jab into the stomach to realize that she's apprehensive to enter her own house.

"Come on, Scully. No need to worry, I cleaned up," I coax her, and she smiles.

She lets me pull her inside, letting go of my hand when she's three steps from the front door. She puts her hands in her pants pockets, looks around, takes in the surroundings. She looks like someone on a house viewing, asking herself whether she could feel comfortable living in this house. Then, to my immense relief, she says, "I like it."

"You do?"

"Yes, it's homey."

"I hoped you'd say that."

She stretches her hand out to me. "Care to give me a tour?"

I show her around and I see her smile at little things, like the vase with fresh flowers I put on the dining room table or the painting on the wall we got at the local flea market. When she sees the pencils stuck in the ceiling of my office, she throws me a puzzled look but doesn't say anything. Shit, I should've taken them down!

Another tricky moment is when I show her our bedroom. Her eyes rest a bit too long on the bed for me to let it pass without comment. "You'll have the bed to yourself. I, uh...I will sleep downstairs on the couch."

"You don't have to," she says contrary to my expectations. "I mean, it's a big bed, and we're married. If you promise not to try anything, I guess we can give it a shot, don't you think?"

 _Oh yes, baby, we can!_

I've been sleeping alone in this bed for too long. Although it will be difficult to keep my hands off her, not to spoon her and pull her close until her back warms my chest, but I'm more than willing to pretend I'm a monk, so "Sure!" is all I croak.

She moves forward and takes a look at the bathroom.

"Aww, a tub! Wonderful!"

"You insisted we'd get a tub. There wasn't one when we bought the house."

"I only had a shower at the clinic. I so wanted to take a bath every now and then," she tells me.

"Why don't you draw one right away? Take your time and relax a little. I get your things up here."

"Oh, I'd love to!"

"Go ahead then! You find your clothes in the closet over there," I point to an antique piece of furniture we bought in a little shop a few miles down the road, "your underwear in the bottom drawer."

My last remark makes her blush which is so cute but also a bit sad. I can't believe we're at a point where me speaking of her underwear causes a reaction of uneasiness.

I open the cabinet under the sink and hand her a bottle of bath foam. "Here, this is your favorite."

She takes it from me, her fingers grazing mine shortly.

"Thank you, Fox. You're really sweet."

When she comes down after her bath I'm preparing dinner. She found her clothes obviously. She's dressed in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, her hair is put together in a ponytail. Her face is cleared of all the makeup and I can see the freckles I've always loved. They make her look so pure and raw, so charmingly girlish.

She's beautiful. The mole on her upper lip is drawing me in. It's the appealing sensual counterpart to the innocent freckles. I never understood why she covered it up. I find it very sexy.

"Hey," she says, "you cook? It seems I've found myself the perfect husband."

I could tell her that I had enough time to practice cooking when I still had to hide and couldn't leave the house, but I don't. It's our first evening at home together, and I don't want to spoil it with tales of government conspiracies.

"I made chicken salad with low-fat dressing and pasta primavera. And before you ask, you like it," I say with a grin.

"You know my favorites better than I do."

I think I know where the slight sad ring to her voice is coming from. It must feel awkward to have someone else tell you what you like and what you don't.

"It'll all come back to you, Scully. I'm sure of it."

She shoots me a weak but thankful smile.

We have our dinner mostly in silence. It's a comfortable silence, one that settles easily as we're both enjoying our time together. She compliments me on the food and I talk her into having some ice cream for dessert, that's mostly it. When the table is cleared and the dishes are done, I pour us two glasses of wine and ask her to come outside and sit with me on the porch swing to watch the sunset.

"Don't tell me that this is my favorite spot of the house, Fox, even if it is. Please," she begs.

I can hear how unsettled she is, that feeling like a stranger in her own house is taking its toll on her.

"Actually, it's mine," I reply, and it's the truth. I've always loved the moments we spent out here, her body leaned against mine or her feet on my lap, watching the sun setting slowly behind the little hill. We spent many nights out here, wrapped in a blanket, staring up the starry sky.

"Sit with me, Scully," I encourage her, and she places herself next to me. I hand her the wine, she takes a tiny sip, then sets the glass down on the porch without saying a word. We both stare at the horizon, waiting for the sun to finally set. The temperature falls a few degrees as soon as the sun is gone, but it's still agreeably warm outside.

I wouldn't mind sitting like this for hours with her beside me. We could talk about the constellations in the night sky or about some other harmless topic, peacefully concluding this day that marks a significant step back to our original daily routine. I can sense her exhaustion, though. She leans herself heavily against my torso, her hands rest on her lap, and her short legs dangle limply off the swing.

"You're tired," I declare.

"I am," she admits. "I took my medication before I came out. It always makes me drowsy."

I didn't know. I was never around for her nightly routine as long as she was in the clinic, had always left before she started getting ready for bed.

"We should call it a night, Scully. It's been a long day for you. Do you still intend to share the bed? I wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch, really."

She contemplates for a moment. "I'd actually appreciate if I didn't have to sleep alone. I think I could use some caring tonight."

"No problem, I have a lot of caring to give." I smile at her and she smiles back. "I'll give you a head start to the bathroom and join you in a bit. I'll just finish my wine."

When I'm at the threshold to our bedroom about twenty minutes later, I have to steady myself against the doorframe, taking in the wonderful sight that's offered to me.

The space on the side of the bed which was empty and cold for months is filled again with the tiny body I missed so much. Scully is lying at her side of the bed with her back to me. She can't see I'm watching her, so I can take my time. I wonder whether it's a coincidence she actually chose her side. Her robe is thrown over the backrest of the chair in the corner, there's a glass of water on her nightstand, and the comforter is folded back like she has always folded it back...everything is like it used to be, how it's supposed to be, and I'm indescribably happy.

I know I'm not allowed to make love to her tonight. She asked for comfort, not for passion. I will give her comfort. It won't be easy to keep my desires in check, but I'll give her what she needs. What she needs the most is time, and I can wait. I waited seven years for us to stand by our feelings, I waited three months for her to be returned to me, I can wait however long it takes for her to feel safe enough with me to let me love her again.

"How much longer are you going to stand there?" she mumbles sleepily. "Come to bed."

I clear my throat, can't help feeling caught. I'm not even sure whether I thought what I just thought or whether I actually voiced it.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you awake."

"You're not keeping me awake, but I need you in here. Get changed and come to bed," she demands silently but with determination, and I am thrilled.

I hurry into the bathroom, brush my teeth, splash some cold water on my face, put on some flannel pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, and return to the bedroom. I slip under the covers and are greeted by a warmth inexperienced during the past months, a warmth only the body of the female you love can provide. Not that I didn't try surrogates - hot-water bottle, heating pad, thermal blanket - but nothing worked.

I don't know how close she wants me, so I lie on my back and position myself right next to her without touching her. Close enough to feel the body heat she radiates and close enough to hopefully offer her the kind of protection and comfort she was looking for when she invited me in, but also far enough not to intimidate her. I learned my lesson from the frenzied first kiss and the story of Skinner catching us in the act.

Suddenly, I notice she's reaching behind, searching for me. I offer her my hand and she grabs it. She pulls it toward her, taking me with it, and before I know it, I am spooned behind her, my front perfectly aligned with her back. I'm in heaven. I feel my body melting into hers, clinging to it as if my life depended on it.

And then I feel something building up in my groin and I curse myself. I instantly direct my thoughts to dirty laundry and greasy pizza cartons in an effort to cool down, to keep my arousal low-key, but it's fruitless. Eventually, I pull my pelvis back a little, to prevent my erection from poking into her backside, but it's too late.

"It's alright, Fox," she mumbles, already half-asleep, "it's a natural reaction. Where there is a stimulus, there is a response. When certain receptors are sensorily or mentally stimulated, the brain sends signals to trigger a hormonal response. Neurons convey the message through the central nervous system and cause a reaction, there's not so much one can do about it. The male erection is nothing but a biochemical reaction."

 _Well, hello there, Science-Scully!_

"I feel honored to be a stimulus to your central nervous system, Fox, given the condition I'm in."

What? A stimulus to my central nervous system?

My arousal doesn't feel like a simple sober textbook biochemical reaction. Not at all! It feels like a divine force capturing my body. I know that seeing me as a receptor of external stimuli and my body as a conveyor of neuronal messages helps her to deal with the situation. Her wounded soul tells her she wants me near but her head cannot really cope with my reaction to the nearness. By allowing me to be so close, it's impossible for her to overlook my love and devotion, and being unable to reciprocate my feelings, chalking them up to a biochemical reaction is her coping mechanism toward finding her inner equilibrium. I totally understand, even if it's almost physically painful to suppress my bodily reaction.

I brush a gentle kiss on her cheek close to the corner of her mouth. I can feel it rise into a slight smile.

"Go to sleep, Scully. I'm gonna get this under control, I promise." I'll have to help myself getting rid of the tension probably. Later, when she's asleep.

"I know. I trust you," she says, and pulls me close again, "good night, Fox."

"Good night, Scully."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

"Tell me about our son, Fox!"

 _No! Please, no!_

It's Sunday morning and we're sitting at the breakfast table. I'm buried in the paper and she's been leafing through a magazine until now. I noticed her mind was elsewhere, but I had no idea where it was. She's brutally yanked out of my current state of Sunday morning bliss with her question.

She must feel my reluctance to answr her because she insists, "you once promised me you'd tell me the whole story." As if she senses my agony, or maybe the fact that my face has turned to stone betrays me.

"I know I promised, but I wished you wouldn't ask me to keep my promise."

 _Look outside, Scully! It's Sunday morning, the sun is shining, a wonderful day is ahead of us._

 _I thought I could take her to the little flea market downtown. She loves strolling past the various sales counters searching for a little something to decorate our house with. We could have one of those wonderful homemade ice cream cones from that infamous Italian parlor on Main Street; strawberry cheesecake for her, double chocolate chip for me. We could walk hand in hand through the park. We don't have to talk, just enjoy each other's presence._

 _Please, have mercy on me, Scully! Don't make me tell you the saddest story of your life. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. Next week? ... Ever?_

"You said he lived. Why doesn't he live with us?"

Oh, how I wished he was sitting with us right now, stuffing pancakes into his mouth, babbling about his latest Lego construction or pleading with us for the umpteenth time to get a dog. I wished there was a bike carelessly thrown somewhere in the front yard, neglected by a seven-year-old. I wished the upstairs spare bedroom was furnished for a boy to live in, stuffed with books and toys, all messy, with a bunk bed for his best buddy to sleep over. I wished we had appointments to make with teachers to discuss his scholar merits and with pediatricians to give him flu shots.

To be consciously missing all this hurts so damn badly, she's got no idea how lucky she is to have no remembrance of what it's like to have lost a son. I know I'm being unfair. She must feel the hole in her heart, the void William left behind. She just can't quite explain it, and her scientist's mind longs for answers. I understand she can't go on forever without knowing, but does it really have to be today?

"It's a long story," I hear myself say.

"I don't need the whole story, I just want to know more about my son than his name. How old is he?"

I knew my hope that I'd be allowed to leave it at that had been futile. I take a deep breath before I finally answer, each word feeling like a stab in my heart.

"He turned seven not long ago."

"Why isn't he living with us? Is it because of me? Because of the amnesia? Do the authorities think I can't take care of a child because of it?"

"No. Your amnesia has nothing to do with it."

"Did they take him from us because we were FBI agents, because our jobs were too dangerous for us to be caring for a child?"

"No. He wasn't taken from us."

"He wasn't _taken_ from us? You mean...you mean we gave him up?"

The total disbelief in her voice almost kills me.

 _Don't do this to me, Scully, please! Don't make me tell you what happened to William!_

I look into her big, questioning eyes and I see how she longs for answers, but sometimes it's better not to know the answer to every question.

"Fox! Talk to me! I have a right to know!"

My tongue feels thick and heavy and my mouth is so dry it sticks to my palate. I'm not sure I'll be able to get a single word out, although she's absolutely right. She has every right to know, and I'd have to tell her sooner or later anyway, so why not get it over and done with?

My stomach churns because the story has the potential to devastate her. I'm trying desperately to think of a way to break it gently to her, but my brain is not cooperating. I'm coming to the conclusion that the best I can do is to be straightforward and clear, to save her from any misunderstanding. Therefore I supply before my courage deserts me, "you gave him up for adoption before he turned one."

As was expected, the information knocks her off balance. I can literally see the color disappearing from her face and the air leaving her lungs. Her mouth falls open and her eyes widen in shock.

"What...did I do?" she whispers, although I'm quite sure she understood me very well.

"You had no other choice, Scully," I'm trying to explain but the words don't reach her.

"I gave my son up for adoption? I? You didn't say 'we', you said 'you'! What kind of a mother was I to give my child away?"

I have to intervene before she talks herself into something that has nothing to do with the truth. This woman knows nothing about what led her to that terrible moment in her life, of course, she's jumping to conclusions.

"Scully, listen! Things were very complicated back then. There's so much I have to explain to you about the circumstances."

"What's there to explain? Mothers give their children up for adoption when they can't...or when they don't want to care for them. Or when they hadn't wanted to have them in the first place, when they want to get rid of them."

"Stop it! Now! None of this applied in William's case, now shut up and let me explain, will ya?"

But she's not listening. My harsh words don't even make her flinch. She buries her face in her hands and starts crying violently. Her shoulders are shaking with every sob that escapes her chest.

This went so awfully wrong! I can't believe I haven't thought about how to do this properly, how to spare her those wrong conclusions.

I get up from my chair, kneel beside her and peel her hands off her face before I appeal, "Scully, please listen to me! Listen carefully! I'm going to need some time to explain everything to you, but there's one thing I want you to understand right away: you weren't a bad mother. The complete opposite is true. You were the best mother William could have, and you're not to blame whatsoever for what happened to him. Would you please take that fact for granted? Can you do that for me?"

"I don't understand," she whispers.

"Then let me explain. Let me explain how much you loved that child, what he meant to you, and that giving him up was a selfless sacrifice on your behalf and not a sign of you lacking motherly love."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," she sobs, her voice shockingly thin.

"No, I don't. William was a miracle. God, where am I to begin?"

She looks down at me, and I'm dumbfounded for a moment because I have to look up to meet her eyes. Usually, it's the other way around. It's not easy for me to keep my own emotions under control and I curse myself once again for not having made a plan about how to explain this to her. At least, I managed to pull her out of her self-loathing mode. She seems willing to listen to me. She wipes the tears off her face with her hands, straightens her back, tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ear, and looks at me expectantly.

I have to stand up because my knees are aching; I'm not in my twenties anymore. I motion for her to join me on the couch. I don't want to sit opposite her as if in an interrogation. I want to put my arm around her shoulder and hold her when I tell her. I'm glad she follows me willingly. But when we're seated, she pulls her knees to her chest and embraces them, like to shield herself from what she's going to hear. I let her, although I'd prefer more physical closeness. She's not ready for it, apparently.

She picks up my last line, saying somewhat defiantly, "every new life is a miracle of nature."

"In our case, it was so much more than that." I brace myself for her reaction before telling her, "you had been diagnosed with POF."

The doctor in her instantly understands. "Premature Ovarian Failure? At the age of...uh, how old am I?"

"You're 43 now."

"So I was 36 when he was born. When was I diagnosed with POF?"

"A few years earlier."

"Well, that was definitely premature. I take it we resorted to reproductive medicine."

She's fully in doctor's mode now, and somehow I'm glad because it leaves her detached and less emotional. But we'll get back to the emotional part, I'm quite sure of it.

I nod. "In vitro. But it didn't take it."

I'm not going to tell her that we weren't together at the time, that she'd asked me as a friend to be her sperm donor and not as her spouse to father her child.

"What did we try then? Gestational surrogacy? Which would mean I didn't give birth to him, but I found some faint stretch marks on my body. I must have been pregnant at least once in my life."

"We did not try any kind of surrogacy. And two times yes, you carried him and you gave birth to him. He's our child. We eventually made him the old-fashioned way."

"The old-fashioned way? How?"

"You're a doctor, you know how babies are made."

 _Stupid, Mulder! You're so stupid!_

This is not the time for a light banter, and sure enough, she narrows her eyes and shoots warning looks at me.

"You aren't taking this to a joking level, are you?"

"No! No, I'm sorry."

"I do know how babies are made, and I can imagine we had intercourse as a married couple, but how come I conceived? If I had POF, I was barren. Without a donated and artificially inseminated egg there was no chance for a pregnancy."

'No lies,' I hear Dr. Pratt whisper into my ear. 'Never bend the truth to cover up something, never let her draw conclusions that are at odds with the truth. You have to be absolutely honest when you talk to her about her past. What seems to be a comfortable loophole at a certain moment will come back to you as a wrecking ball to your relationship when she finds out you were untrue. She'll find it hard to trust you again. She might never be able to. So, no matter how difficult it is for you, no matter how painful it is for her, tell her the truth. Always.'

"We weren't married."

I inhale deeply and hold my breath.

"O-kay. That surprises me a bit, but hey, a lot of couples nowadays choose not to marry."

"We weren't even a couple. Not in the proper sense of the term."

"Not in the proper sense of the term? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Goddamnit, Scully, it was so complicated! We...were so complicated. Nothing was ever easy for us. I don't know how to explain this to you."

"For heaven's sake, Fox, try!"

Okay, I guess now is the time to stop beating around the bush. I need to be very clear on this. "I loved you. And you loved me. But we weren't involved. Physically involved, I mean. We were like...like...platonic lovers."

"Well, not so platonic after all if I got pregnant _the old-fashioned way_." She draws invisible quotation marks in the air and sounds a little annoyed. She grimaces at her own lame joke, her expression freezes the very next second, though. "Are you not the father? Have I-"

"No," I interrupt her, "you haven't! Absolutely not! Jesus, why do you get it all wrong?"

"Because you're only giving me bits and pieces here! Incoherent, contradicting information that doesn't make a reasonable whole!"

She jolts up from the couch, taking one of the cushions with her and holding it in front of her chest now, subconsciously shielding her heart. Only that a cushion can't save the heart from emotional pain.

"I've had enough of this!" She's almost yelling at me. "This is so confusing! I don't know what to make of all of this. I need some time to sort this out."

"No!" I grab her sleeve to keep her from leaving. "Please, Scully! You'd be making up countless theories in your head and none of it would be even close to the truth because our lives back then were so out of the ordinary. Give me ten minutes to explain. Please. Just ten minutes."

She's standing still for a moment, her back turned toward me. I can tell she's struggling with herself about what to do.

"Ten minutes. That's all I'm asking for, and I promise you'll be wiser afterward."

She turns around slowly and meets my eyes, hers watery. I'm not sure whether because she's anxious or sad, or maybe just because she's angry with me for having been so cryptical so far.

"Promise to tell me the truth," she demands.

"I promise!" I let go of her sleeve and motion for her to sit next to me again.

She inhales deeply, then places herself on the couch, further away from me this time. Her knees are up again, offering her chin a place to rest on. I don't know why she needs that distance between us, why she can't look at me as I speak.

I take a deep, calming inhale of breath myself and start telling her about what led her to the point of giving William up for adoption. Of course, it had to be a short version, otherwise, I wouldn't be talking for ten minutes but ten hours straight, or maybe ten days even.

She shows no reaction, simply takes all the information in, as if she was listening to a lecture at college. She lets me talk, she's not interrupting me with questions or demanding I clarify things. I'm not even sure she's really listening. I pause for a moment to incite some kind of reaction; a movement, a sigh, a word. Nothing. So I conclude my narration.

"We'd unmasked a government conspiracy leading directly to the Bureau with some of our direct superiors being involved. We'd exposed ourselves, Scully. We were abducted, misled, threatened, harmed in many ways, but we never gave up. We couldn't let those sons of bitches get through with their vile intentions. What used to be my quest had become yours too, and you chose not to leave my side although you had the chance. But when William was born, the stakes were too high. You'd become a mother, Scully, and you had to protect your son. The decision you'd once made for yourself, to put your life on the line for me, couldn't apply to him. For you, there was no way out anymore, but there was one for William. That's why you gave him up. The adoption was his one-way ticket away from the omnipresent danger our lives would've held for him. That's it."

That's it.

I swallow.

She's still not moving, isn't saying anything. She just closes her eyes and a tear rolls down her cheek. I'd like to brush it away but I fear to wake her from her trance-like state and startle her. I have no idea what's going on in her mind. Does it make any sense to her? Does she think this is all too crazy to be true? Does she remember any of it?

She's still staring straight ahead, avoiding my eyes, when she speaks eventually. "I couldn't protect my son."

Although she heard a lot of reasons why she had to do what she did, that her motives had been beyond all blame, she narrows it down to a point where she's accusing herself. I know that regardless of what I tell her, she'll feel guilty. I try anyway.

"Nobody could. Not without denying him a normal life, and that's what you wanted him to have."

"You never blamed me for what I'd done?"

"Never."

"Not even a tiny bit? Secretly?"

"No."

"You promised to tell me the truth," she reminds me.

"I am telling you the truth."

She looks at me with her clear blue eyes, her face unreadable. To my complete surprise, she folds her knees away, leans in and places a gentle peck on my cheek, breathing a soft 'thank you' in my ear.

"You don't have to thank me. I owed you the truth."

"I meant for not casting a stone at me."

"I was in no position to do that. I would've wanted to do the same for him, I only doubt I would've had the courage and the strength."

"That's why I felt my heart was heavy when you first mentioned his name. I sensed there was a sad story behind it although I couldn't remember it."

"It was a shattering, life-altering experience for you, Scully. It's been branded into your soul, even if you don't have any access to it at the moment."

"Probably."

"How are you?"

"I'm good. I need some time to let it all sink in, though."

"Take as much time as you need. I'll be right here whenever you have more questions."

"Do we some pictures of him? Anything that reminds us of him?"

"Yes. Would you like to see them?"

She nods.

I rise from the couch and cast her a smile.

"Why don't you make us a pot of tea and I go and fetch what we have."

There's a box in the attic. It's shoved into the rearmost corner, so that we don't stumble over it every time we pick up something from up there, like the deck stairs in the spring or the Christmas decoration in the winter.

It doesn't take long for me to find it, although it's just a usual cardboard box like many others up here, unlabeled and hidden behind a pile of spare tires. I know exactly where it is because unlike Scully I've had a look at it from time to time. When she was in the hospital on a double shift, for example, or away for the weekend with her mother. At moments like those, when I felt lonely and my mind wasn't distracted enough, hence it kept wandering around until it made its way up to where that box was located.

When I return to the living room, the teapot sits on a warmer. Instead of mugs, she put two teacups on the table, along with honey and some milk.

I place the box in the middle of the coffee table.

"It's small," she notices.

"Yeah, well, I guess keeping more things wouldn't have made it any easier."

We sit for a moment side by side staring at the box like deer caught in the headlights, then she pulls it on her lap and opens it.

I don't have to look in there to know what's inside. The only things that remain from our son are the blanket he was wrapped in after he was born, a onesie with a baby giraffe on it, a pacifier, a baby rattle, a piece of paper with imprints of his tiny hands and feet in blue ink, a few pictures, eight, to be precise, and a copy of his birth certificate.

It took me a long time to figure out why she made a copy of it. I guess she wasn't supposed to because of the adoption being a closed one, but she did anyway. She needed proof that all of it had really happened. The span of this baby's presence in our lives was so short. In mine, it was just for as long as the blink of an eye. One moment, he made a miraculous entrance into my existence, the very next he was gone. Scully, being prone to relying on hard data as a scientist, kept the written document as a piece of evidence. Not so much for the outside world, but for herself. Although I'm not sure she's ever looked at it after she handed off the original to the social worker at the adoption agency.

I know I'm not mentioned as the father. The space on the certificate where the father's name is usually put is blank. Scully and I agreed that it was better this way. Safer. Little did we know that this particular safety measure along with all the others wouldn't protect him enough. Now I wished my name was on that birth certificate, for the same reasons Scully kept the copy.

The first thing she pulls out of William's commemorative cardboard box is his onesie. It's the one I sent her through tortuous paths when he was half a year old and I was separated from my family, having to hide to keep them safe. She puts the garment to her cheek.

"It doesn't smell like him anymore," I say. I can almost feel the sensation on my own skin for all the times I'd done that, too, hoping to connect with him somehow. But other than the softness of the fabric there is nothing there.

"Has it been washed?" she asks.

"Probably not. I guess the smell has just faded. It's been more than six years, Scully."

"Sure," she sighs.

One after the other, she takes the other items out of the box. She smiles at the hand and footprints, unfolds the baby blanket, and furrows her brows at the birth certificate. She looks at the pacifier and the rattle, maybe trying to picture herself calming a baby boy with them. She sets all the things on the coffee table next to the teapot without a word. She then retrieves the envelope containing the pictures we have of our son, all eight of them.

I don't know why there are only so few. Maybe she didn't take so many, maybe she threw them away in agony after he was gone, but most likely she deliberately chose the few she kept, each one marking a special moment.

There's the one of us three, the only one of us three, a few days after he was born. Frohike took it in Scully's apartment. William had just been nursed and fallen asleep in his mother's arms. I'm sitting next to Scully in that picture, my arm around her shoulder. She's beaming into the camera and I'm flashing a somewhat goofy grin. There's an inscription on the back in Scully's hand. It says, 'We're parents!'

Without looking at the back, she holds the picture out to me. "We look happy."

"We were happy, Scully. Very happy," I answer and my voice almost deserts me.

There's a photograph of William in his crib, the crib Scully and her siblings had spent their first months in, showing a toothless smile. On the back she'd written, 'our baby in the family crib'.

There's one she took of me while I was sleeping on the couch with William resting on my chest, looking at Scully as if he wanted to say, 'look, mommy, daddy passed out'. When I'd first read what's on the back, 'my two men', my heart bled even more than when I was looking at the picture itself. The words still have that effect on me.

There's a picture with just the word 'grandma' on the back. It shows a smiling Margaret with William on her lap, feeding him a bottle.

"How did my mother take it?"

"She needed some time to get over it," I tell her. Scully had never told me about the many discussions she had with her mother, arguments even, but Maggie had. "You should talk to her about it one day. When you're ready. She can tell you much more about him than I can. She babysat him quite a lot."

The remaining four pictures are only of him.

William sitting on a blanket on the floor with the rattle in his mouth. The back reads, 'bothered by his first tooth'.  
William in his high chair, carrot mash smeared all over his face. The back reads, 'having fun with the first solid food'.  
William on all fours, crawling towards the photographer, his face beaming. The back reads, 'getting ready to conquer the world'.

And then there's the last one. It shows William in a jacket and a funny hat, buckled up in his car seat. It's slightly out of focus as if taken in a rush. It's the only one without anything written on the back. Even without any explanation, I have an idea of what I see in this picture.

Scully's eyes are glued to it now. Then she looks at the others again, one by one. It must strike her how different that one is. Eventually, she speaks out loud what I never dared to ask her about.

"This is the last picture we have of him."

I only nod.

"We don't know what he looks like today, where he lives, who his parents are."

These are no questions, just findings from her assessing everything she's heard about William's adoption from me today.

"Is there any chance for us to get in touch with him?"

I shake my head no.

"To find out his whereabouts or how he's doing?"

Again, I have to shake my head.

"Can he get in touch with us? If he wants to, maybe when he's a teenager? In puberty, adoptive children often develop a longing to learn everything about their biological roots."

"No," I answer, "it's been a closed adoption. All information is sealed. It had to be done this way to keep him safe."

I'm not telling her that there is a person who knows. Skinner. He knows the name of the couple who adopted William and he knows where they live. Our former boss keeps an eye on our son, just to make sure the forces Scully tried to protect him from haven't tracked him down after all. It's calming for me to know Skinner's looking out for him, but it's also a constant temptation to pry the secret information out of him. I wonder if I will ever hold him at gunpoint, yelling at him to tell me where William is.

"So we will never see our son again." Scully sighs heavily. "We know nothing about him and never will."

There's nothing further for me to say.

We sit in silence for a long time and sip our tea. She looks okay, a bit exhausted maybe, but not devastated or broken.

"Thank you for telling me everything."

"I promised."

"Yes, you promised, but still, it must have been difficult for you. He's your son, too, and you lost him. I understand now why you wanted to keep it from me when I first asked you about him. I hadn't been stable enough at the time to deal with it. Thank you for taking such good care of me, Fox."

Despite her frequent use of my first name in the past months, I'm simply not getting used to it. It has, and will continue to do so, a weird ring.

 _Scully, it's me, Mulder!_

"You've always been my favorite patient, Scully," I say and make her laugh.

She places the box on her lap and puts the William memorabilia back in, piece by piece, very carefully and gently. She sets the box on the coffee table and puts the lid back on.

"What do you say we keep it down here from now on instead of hiding it in the attic? Maybe not here in the living room, but how about our bedroom closet?"

"I like the idea."

I really like the idea. I love it actually. Maybe we've just taken a huge step toward dealing together with the loss of William. Maybe it's going to be one good thing this damn amnesia brings along in its wake. If we stop trying to cope with it separately, if we start sharing our grief and our guilt feeling, maybe then we'll be able to halt the downward spiral we'd definitely been on before Scully was taken. We'd been drifting away from each other, slowly but gradually, each of us alone in trying to come to terms with the emptiness our son left behind. I felt it but I couldn't do anything against it. If this is meant to be the onset of a new way for us, then I swear to God I'll never curse that fucking amnesia again.

"You know what?" she says and rises from the sofa, "I'd like us to go for a walk. Do you know that Italian ice cream parlor on Main Street? Francesco's Gelato? Their ice cream is heavenly. Have your ever tried Bacio? It means 'kiss' in Italian. It's a delicious mixture of hazelnut and chocolate. I'm in the mood for one of their cones. What about you?"

I'm definitely in the mood for a kiss!

"My treat," I say.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

She's back home for two months now and it's going well.

I think.

She's meeting with a psychiatrist in town every other day, exercising memory techniques at home in between. She rests a lot, either in our bed, on the sofa or outside in the hammock. Every now and then, she'd ask me something about her - our - past or hold something up in the air wanting to know where it's come from. We've already talked more about William in the past few weeks than in the six years before, and it's liberating not to suppress the topic anymore.

She's in a good mood most of the time, optimistic and lighthearted. Only sometimes would she become mute and withdraw from me.

It's not always easy for me to remember her condition because on the outside she looks exactly like my Scully. She regained all the pounds she lost during her ordeal when that killer had her under his control, her voice is the same, her movements, her looks. The way she pokes at her food is still the same, as is the way she neatly squeezes the toothpaste tube. The way she rolls her eyes at me when I make a lame joke is very familiar, as well as the hike her eyebrow takes when I tell her something she doesn't want to believe.

Only that _thing_ between us is not the same.

Our relationship has a quality it has never had before, save the first few months of our partnership maybe. It's cordial, easy, convivial, and she's very trusting. There's hardly ever awkwardness between us, which is good. It gives her the freedom and audacity to ask me whatever she needs to know, about herself, work, her family, us... It's as if we were siblings. I really do feel more like her older brother than her husband.

I'm so grateful for having gotten her back but in her world, there seems to be no attraction, no chemistry, at least that's the impression I get from where I'm standing. I am, of course, very much attracted and every day I'm not allowed to touch her in the places I want to and in the way I want to, gnaws at me. Doubts start arising within me that I'll be able to go on like this forever, that this can be enough for me for the time being. It's hard to have her so near and yet so out of reach.

It's eating me up.

For all the years before we'd become involved, we would've called our relationship platonic, but compared to what we have now, it had been a firework of gazes, touches, and flirtation. And I miss it. I miss it a lot. As frustrating as it had been sometimes, I prefer to be her secret, suppressed fantasy to being her best buddy.

Only very lately do I have the feeling the setup between us is changing. I try not to read too much into it, but there's definitely more touching from her. She slips her hand into mine when we're taking one of our long strolls around the farmland surrounding our house. She puts her head on my shoulder when we're sitting on the porch swing watching the sunset, wrapped together in a single blanket now that evenings are chilly in the fall. She squeezes my forearm when I serve her a cup of tea. As if she seizes the opportunities to make physical contact. And I let it happen. Of course.

Right now, I feel her hands on my shoulders, gently kneading the muscles that are all stiff after a long day of writing at the computer. I'm exhausted, my eyes burn, and I'm hungry. I haven't accomplished much though, so a good deal of dissatisfaction is thrown into the mix. But her hands on my shoulders are calming me down.

"You tired?" she asks gently.

I take my glasses off and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I am."

"You've been sitting here all day. How about a hot bath?"

 _You and me together?_ _Just kidding!_

"Sounds good actually."

I rise from my chair and stretch. "Ouch," I wince when I hear my bones crack and feel my muscles strain.

"You know what? You go upstairs and relax in the tub. I prepare something to eat and after dinner, I give you a massage. There are some nasty knots in your neck and shoulder muscles."

The offer is too tempting to say no, although I should be the one caring for her instead of the other way around. But to be honest, I could use a massage, and I'm too exhausted to take care for dinner myself.

"If you don't mind."

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I had minded," she asserts.

"Ok, but don't make a fuss. I think there are leftovers in the fridge, just warm something up."

"Leave it to me. Go!"

She nudges me out of my office like a boy who needs to be nudged into the classroom on his first day of school.

When I let myself slip into the hot water, I'm in heaven. My sore neck and shoulders instantly relax in the humid warmth, even my mind is slowing down.

I don't know how long I've been soaking in the tub when I hear a cautious knock at the door. It must've been a while because when I look at my palms the skin is wrinkled and the bathroom mirror is foggy from the humidity. I quickly check the water surface to make sure there are still enough bubbles to cover my lower body before I tell her to come in.

She props her head through a tiny crack. "Everything alright in here?"

"Yeah, you may even dare to come in, Scully."

She opens the door and presents a tray. "I figured you must be very hungry, so I made a club sandwich."

She fixes the tray at the edge of the tub, the one she usually uses when she's relaxing in a bubble bath with a book. There's a plate with the sandwich, which looks really good I must say, and a glass of red wine.

"Is wine okay or would you rather have a beer with it?" she asks.

"Wine is perfect, thanks a lot."

"You're very welcome."

Without warning, she dips her hand into the water, shortly grazing my thigh. Accidentally, I suppose, but I freeze anyway.

"Is this still warm enough?" she asks innocently.

"It is," I croak.

 _I wasn't freezing because of the water temperature being too low but because of your fingers touching my thigh only inches away from my best member._

"Ok, take your time in here. When you're done, I'll knead those knots out of your muscles."

"Ok," I answer, but I won't take any more time than absolutely necessary to put that sandwich away.

It is delicious, actually, but still, the prospect of Scully waiting for me to give me a massage is so alluring that I jump out of the tub as soon as I swallowed the last bite. I haven't emptied the wine yet, but I will take it with me.

I enter the bedroom all clean and refreshed in a pair of pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, the wine glass in my hand. She's dimmed the light and lit some candles. Soft music is coming from the stereo. The covers have been folded away, but Scully's nowhere to be seen.

"Scully?" I call for her.

"I'll be right up," she shouts from downstairs, "make yourself comfortable on the bed."

On the bed, huh?

I place myself on my side of said piece of furniture in my night gear, indecisive, trying to imagine what she exactly meant by making myself comfortable.

"I was looking for some massage oil, but it seems we don't have any," she says when she enters the bedroom a few minutes later, "I even checked the storeroom downstairs but all I found were three different kinds of olive oil and some sunflower oil. I think we have to settle for my body lotion. I hope you like vanilla."

Is that meant to be a joke? I've always loved her vanilla scent on me, no matter how it got there, but especially after we'd made love.

"You're still dressed?" she asks somewhat aghast when she realizes it. "Am I supposed to work on you through your shirt? Undress!"

"Okay, doc!" I manage before I pull my shirt over my head. I suppose she meant only the shirt.

"No lie down on your stomach, relax, and allow my fingers to get to work!"

I do as I've been told, burying my face into the pillow.

I hear her flipping open the bottle with the body lotion, a hint of the familiar reaching my nose when she squeezes some of it onto her hand. She's rubbing it between her palms, probably warming it up before spreading it onto my skin. And then it's there, the feeling of her soft, warm hands on me. She's spreading the lotion on my back in large circles, tracing slow pathways across my backside, applying a very comfortable pressure. When she shoves the hem of my pants a little further down my buttocks to be able to work on my lower back, my pulse accelerates.

My mind wanders back to the time when everything was still alright, when touching me like this was leading to cuddling and later on lovemaking, when it was not part of some kind of medical treatment. I close my eyes to imagine us in a different setting, wishing us about half a year back in time, when physical intimacy was nothing to be nervous about but the most natural thing between us.

"Trapezius. Splenius capitis. Sternocleidomastoid," she recites while palpating my neck. "Obliquus capitis inferior. Rectus capitis posterior major and," she readjusts her fingers a bit, "ah, there it is...rectus capitis posterior minus."

I'd always been impressed by her reciting medical terminology, but right now this is not only pulling me out of my sweet bliss but it's downright baffling me. How come she doesn't remember the date and place she was born but is able to call every fucking muscle in my neck by its Latin term? Why didn't the amnesia affect this part of her brain, why did it have to be the part where our life together is stored? In moments like these, I want to curse everything and everyone and especially the merciless fate which put us through yet another ordeal.

Sometimes I ask myself why we're not allowed to be happy, not for long anyway. Who's the sick bastard having fun throwing us off course every now and then, begrudging us even the most humble states of happiness? I mean, hasn't it been enough to take our loved ones away from us, is it really necessary to take us away from one another as well?

Her voice cuts through my musings. "Your muscles are very tight, Fox, this might hurt a little. Tell me when I'm using too much pressure."

The physical pain will be nothing compared to the emotional pain I'm suffering from day in and day out since the woman I'm deeply in love with has forgotten who I am, I'm thinking, but instead, I say, "I have a high threshold for pain."

"I bet you have," she replies flatly. "Let me loosen your back and shoulder muscles first."

She places both hands on my lower back and strokes reasonably firmly upwards all the way up to my neck. Then, with gentler pressure, she circles around and slides her hands back to down.

Oh, this feels good!

I moan.

"Too much?" she asks and takes her hands off me.

"No, it's perfect," I mumble into the pillow, "go on, please!"

Now, she uses only the heels of her hands, starting at my lower back again. Both hands work in small circles with a deeper pressure, moving outward, upward, and back to the center. She gradually progresses to my upper back until she reaches my achy shoulders.

God, I feel the tension falling off of me a little more with every stroke of her magical hands.

Next, she glides a thumb with deep sustained spotty pressure up the full length of the muscles on either side of my spine. She moves slowly and deliberately, in sync with the music coming from the stereo.

I can feel her rise from the bed and for a moment I fear that she's done already, but she leaves her hands on my back, so I guess I'm safe to hope for more. She kneels next to my right flank and works on the opposite side of my body. She puts one hand on top of the other and pushes with the flats of her fingers away from the center line to glide back toward the spine. Again, she starts at my lower back, working up slowly to my shoulders. When she's done with my left side, she straddles my buttocks for a moment - _Stay there, baby! Right there!_ \- to kneel at my other side to care likewise for my right flank.

"Does this feel good?" she asks.

"Mmhmmm," I hum, stifled by the pillow my face is still buried in.

She giggles. "I suppose I can take that as a yes."

Turning my face to the side I elaborate, "this is great, Scully, thanks so much. I didn't even realize I was so tense."

"You spent too much time in front of your computer today, Fox. Your shoulders and neck muscles are so tight, they must be terribly achy."

She places her hands at the spots where my neck meets my shoulders and gently rotates the palms. She then forms her hands into loose fists and places each one on either side of my neck near the base of my skull. She starts rotating her wrists forward as she moves her hands down to the tops of my shoulders, rotating backward as she moves back toward the base of my skull.

Suddenly, she hits a trigger point which is especially tense and very sensitive. I gasp.

"Sorry," she says and instantly reduces the pressure.

"No, it's okay. It's just that I'm very sore right there."

"Yeah, I figured. Let me try something. If it's too painful, tell me to stop."

I feel her drape her right hand over the back of my neck in a C-form. I feel like a cat about to be picked up by the back of my neck. She presses gently into the muscles at each side with her fingers and thumbs, gradually deepening the pressure. While maintaining the firm squeeze, she does a large circular kneading action with her hand.

My muscles work against the pressure at first, tightening even more which causes a stinging pain. She feels it under her fingers apparently because she tells me to breathe the pain away by inhaling deeply through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth. I can't help being reminded of the Lamaze class I took her to once, where I told her exactly the same.

"It should be getting better, I can feel your muscles relaxing," she informs me, and she's right. The pain wanes a bit but is still very prominent.

"Try to let go, Fox. Picture your muscles yield to the pressure."

She deepens the pressure a bit again and I can't keep a painful moan from slipping out.

"I'm at a trigger point right now, try to bear it just a little longer. Trust me, the muscles will surrender at some point."

"And when exactly will that be, Scully, because right now I feel squeezed like a lemon...ouch!

"I didn't know you were such a baby! So where's that high threshold for pain you told me about? Really, if men were to give birth, the human race would long be extinct!"

"Doctors are sadists, I knew it, and you are no exception, Doctor Scully!" I grunt.

Is it smart to tease her when my neck is clamped viselike in her hand? Maybe not! I assume I made her want to increase the pressure until I beg for mercy, but I have to give her credit, she remains completely professional. She maintains the slight circular motion, and a little later, indeed, I feel the pain wear off and the muscles relax.

"Ouffff," I breathe, followed by more sounds signaling that the pain is easing to the same extent the comfort is increasing.

"There you go," she says, unable to hide a triumphant undertone, "eventually, the muscle yields and softens. Better?"

"Much better."

"Good."

I move my head, now being able to do it without any cracking noises from my neck.

"You're a magician, Scully."

"Just a simple acupressure technique I learned from an alternative practitioner at med school. Lie still, I need to channel you out of the procedure."

She slowly reduces the pressure until she's more or less stroking my neck, finishing the massage by gently placing her hands on my shoulders.

I'm totally relaxed. What had felt like a dead weight on my shoulders half and hour ago, is gone. It wasn't exactly a feel-good massage, but I do feel good now. Really good.

After a short moment of stillness, her fingers start gliding back and forth over my right shoulder. I'm not sure if it's still part of the massage, so I don't move, but actually, it doesn't seem to be. It feels more like an intimate, tender caress than a medical procedure, alternative or not. When she touches the scar on my shoulder, I realize where this is going.

"Is that from a gunshot?" she asks timidly.

"Uhm, yes," I mumble, my face turned sideways on the pillow.

"What happened?"

"You...shot me," I say as unemotionally as I can.

I don't turn around so I don't see her face which I guess is falling apart, but I can hear her gasp.

"What? I accidentally shot you in the shoulder?"

 _Jesus, Scully, how many more crazy stories do I have to tell you?_

"Your hit ratio was above 90 percent, Agent Scully. You wanted the bullet right there."

"Why for heaven's sake would I want to shoot you in the shoulder?"

"Because I was going to do something incredibly stupid."

"Which was what?"

"I was about to shoot the person I believed had killed my father. I'd been drugged and was completely out of my mind. There was no other way for you to stop me, so you put a bullet through me where it'd do only little damage. Like I said, you were among the FBI's top scorers on the firing range, you hit the target right where you wanted to hit it."

She palpates the spot with gentle paws. "It's healed well."

"You patched me up and took me to a place where I could rest until the effect of the drugs had worn off."

"Well, it was the least I could do."

"You'd done the right thing, Scully. I would've gotten into big trouble if I had shot that guy, although he'd deserved it. The weapon I'd been holding would've turned me into the prime suspect in my father's murder case."

"And I was aware of that."

It's not phrased as a question but I know it is one.

"Of course, you were. You'd always been aware of the essentials of a case."

"I see."

Her hand has been resting on my shoulder blade during our entire conversation. It made me remain on my stomach.

"I have what I believe is a scar from a gunshot on my abdomen," she says now, opening up yet another chapter of her past I would've rather kept closed.

"Ugh, yes, don't remind me!" I huff. "That _was_ an accidental hit. Not from me, though, but from some green, incapable, and unbelievably impetuous agent you were working with for just that one case. The guy was lucky you recovered quickly, miraculously quickly even, despite the severe abdominal damage he'd caused because nobody would've kept me from killing him if you hadn't."

I still haven't turned around but I can literally hear the smile in her voice when she says, "we were quite a working duo, weren't we?"

"Yes, indeed, we certainly were. They called us Mr. and Mrs. Spooky," I say and hide my grin in the pillow.

Now she laughs heartily, a rare and therefore very welcome sound.

"Why Spooky?"

"Because my dear colleagues had come up with that very funny nickname for me, _Spooky_ Mulder, and you as my partner inherited it, so to say."

"So everybody in the Bureau assumed we had something going on," she establishes. Of course, she's understood the innuendo behind the expression, back then as well as today.

"I guess so, yes."

"Didn't it bother you?"

Now that question makes me turn around eventually and prop myself up on my elbows.

"I was used to be shoved into that corner. I simply overlooked the people who whispered behind the scenes and ignored their eye rolls and mocking remarks. I didn't give a fuck what they called me, but it bothered me that you were awarded the same ridiculous title just because you were being a loyal partner. In my case, they were just making fun of me and the work they were too narrow-minded to understand. In your case, they were simply being sexists, pretermitting your integrity and capability as a field agent."

"Did it bother me?"

"At the beginning, probably, but later on, you were above the gossip."

"But you said I was so compliant with the fraternization rules."

"You were, but not because you were worried about what other people thought of you. If at all, you were worried about what the rumors did to the reputation of our work on the X-Files. You followed the rules because you believed the quality of our work would suffer if our private and professional lives were mingled."

"Did it? Suffer?"

"No, it didn't. Not a bit. As a matter of fact, we were given cases years after we'd first resigned from the Bureau even though we were an official couple at the time. Our relationship status had nothing to do with the quality of our work."

"An official couple?"

"I had a wedding certificate signed by a justice of the peace of the wonderful state of Kansas to prove I'd really made you tie the knot with me."

"Come on, you make it sound as if you thought I'd married down."

 _Yes, I do! There'd been better catches out there for you, but thanks to some divine choreography, you chose me._

I'm one lucky son of a bitch!

Those were just thoughts, but I'm not sure they'd not been written all over my face because she puts a hand to my cheek and gifts me a tender, even loving smile. In a voice as smooth as silk she adds, "I don't think I married down."

God, how I want to kiss her! How I want to pull her on top of me, to feel her weight on me, pushing my body into the mattress!

Her thumb strokes my cheek and suddenly there's so much energy in the room, the intensity with which we gaze at each other multiplying. How can a pair of crystal blue eyes radiate so much warmth?

She feels it too because she pulls her hand back. Not hastily as if she's burnt her fingers, but clearly in an effort to break the spell.

I don't know what to say. I'm really good at saying stupid things in moments like these, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. Actions speak louder than words, I tell myself, and so I take the hand that's just left my cheek in mine, pull it to my mouth and kiss it.

"Fox," she says in a tone that adds 'what are you doing?' at the end.

"It's alright, Scully. I'm not hitting on you, I just want you to know how much you mean to me. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but we're in bed together, I'm scantily dressed, and you've just relaxed all my tense muscles with your magical massage...I can't help but enjoy this moment."

Maybe that wasn't so stupid after all, at least that's what her face tells me.

"You're not making me uncomfortable. Not at all. If I was uncomfortable around you, I wouldn't be living with you in this house, sleeping in a bed with you. What makes me uncomfortable is the fact that I feel like I'm taking advantage of you. You're giving me so much, and I'm...uh, I'm not giving you anything back, really."

"Huh? I don't understand, Scully. You just gave me the most wonderful massage."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

She bites her lower lip and looks down at the hand I just kissed. Is she nervous? Hesitant to tell me?

"Scully? What is it?"

"You know."

"No, I don't!"

I really don't. What the hell is she talking about?

"I'm not giving you back anything...physical."

She moves a strand of hair behind her ear which is a clear sign of her being uneasy. I can't believe what I'm hearing, though. Is she really having a bad conscience because we haven't had sex yet? I don't know what to say!

Of course, my silence makes her even tenser. "God, this is so embarrassing!"

"There's no reason for you to be embarrassed! Really! I don't expect you to sleep with me in an act of gratitude if that's what you mean. Hell, who do you think I am?"

"I just thought that you...you would want me to...ugh, I don't know how to put it in words."

"You thought I expected you to consent to have sex because you owed it to me after what I'd done for you these past weeks? Like fulfilling your marital obligations? Is this where this is going?"

"The way you're saying it, it sounds ridiculous."

"Because that's what it is! It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of!"

My answer came out a bit more fervently than I intended. The way she's casting her eyes down makes her look like a little girl who's embarrassed because her mother has caught her picking her nose.

"Scully," I say, having brought my agitation down a notch, "you owe me nothing. I once told you so many years ago and it's still true. I'm not gonna pretend that I'm not attracted to you, that at times it's not easy for my to keep my desire in check, but that's my problem, not yours. I'll do everything to help you heal. That's because I love you, Scully, more than I've ever loved anyone. I'll sleep on the couch if my sleeping in this bed is making you uncomfortable. I'll check into a motel if you rather have the house to yourself. Maybe you'd like to stay at your mother's or you want her to stay here? Just name it, Scully, it'll happen."

"None of this will be necessary, Fox. I'm not uncomfortable here with you. I just thought...well, I guess, it was stupid."

"No, it wasn't stupid." I tap gently on her forearm to make her look at me. "You were being considerate and caring. You were being...you, Scully. Simply you. You've always been like that, and whatever happened to your head hasn't changed it."

Our eyes connect and, instantly, the energy is there again. This time she doesn't pull away but holds the gaze. When I throw her what I hope is an encouraging smile, the corners of her mouth start to rise until she breaks into a warm, hearty chuckle. The awkward tension between us is broken and the comforting ease is back.

"Ready for bed?" I ask.

"Ready for bed," she answers.

"You can have the bathroom first. I'll get the tray downstairs and lock the front door," I suggest.

When I'm back, she's already in bed, glasses on her nose and a medical textbook on her lap. She looks up when I enter the bedroom and smiles at me, just like old times. My hearts leaps.

A few moments later, after my turn in the bathroom, I slip under the covers. A slight vanilla scent lingers in the air, I'm not sure whether it's hers or my own this time. I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and lie on my back. The massage has made me drowsy.

"I'm going to let myself drift off, Scully. You go on reading, it doesn't bother me."

She snaps the book shut. "No, I've only been waiting for you," she says, taking off the glasses and placing them on the nightstand together with the book. When she leans over to turn off the lamp, her pajama top rides up to her waist, exposing the tattoo. I swallow. Looking at it has always both irritated as well as turned me on, and I wonder why she hasn't asked me about it yet. She turns around and there's no more time to dwell on it.

Although all sources of light have been switched off, the moon shining through the blinds sheds enough light on her face for me to notice she's contemplating something. She's chewing the inside of her cheek and seems to be indecisive about what to do next.

"What's the matter?" I finally ask when she's giving no indication of having come to any kind of conclusion.

"Would you...uhm...would you mind...holding me?" she stammers.

Instead of answering this crazy question, I simply stretch my arm out and lift the blanket. She scoots close and a waft of warmth drifts along with her. When she places her head on the spot where my shoulder meets my neck and rests her hand on my chest, a sudden peace settles upon me. I put my arm around her and stroke her upper arm a few times before I pull her a bit closer. I wouldn't mind her leg intertwined with mine, but I guess that'd be too much nearness to ask for.

How often have we drifted off to sleep like that? I've always enjoyed spooning her, bringing our bodies in perfect alignment as her smaller backside fits seamlessly into my taller front, but having her head rest on my chest and her leg spread across my hip has always been so much more intimate. I knew she listened to my heartbeat, her head rising and falling with my breathing. When my torso was bare, her eyelashes tickled my skin and I felt the corner of her mouth rise into a sleepy smile. When her breathing became deeper and more regular, when her limbs became heavier and absolutely still, I knew she'd fallen asleep, marking the moment I was ready to also succumb to sleep.

We're not at this point yet. She's fidgeting, is unable to relax, which lets me think she is not really ready for our embrace, even if it's only a platonic cuddle.

"Scully?" I ask, keeping my voice low and soft, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you so restless?"

"I'm fine!" she assures me stubbornly.

I can't keep the broad laughter inside that escapes my throat, even if I had wanted to. She's not amused, jolts upright in a swift move, and wants to know what's so funny.

"This has always been your line when you were all but fine, Scully," I explain, choking some more laughter.

"But I _am_ fine!" She shoots me a reinforcing look. "I just shouldn't have had that chocolate bar earlier. Sugar after dinner makes me fidgety."

"That's it?"

"That's it! What were you thinking?"

"Nothing," I say and try to sound nonchalant.

"Hardy har har, Fox! You thought I was uneasy in your arms, but I'm not. Stop being overly vigilant about my level of comfort! I'm a big girl, I'm fully capable of minding it myself. If I decide to ask you to take me in your arms, I do it because I want to be in your arms. Got that?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Fine! Then let's just go to sleep, okay?"

"Okaaaay," I appease, although I can't quite believe she'll be calm enough to fall asleep any time soon. "Good night, Scully," I breathe in her hair anyway when she's repositioned her head on my chest. And then my doubts are proven wrong when her breathing does indeed deepen and her limbs eventually lie still.

Scully has fallen asleep in my arms in no time, and contrary to previous experiences, I'm much too excited tonight to follow her to the quiet realm of sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX**

Another movie night is in the making.

Two bowls of popcorn - a bigger one buttered and salted, a smaller one plain - sit on the coffee table, a copy of one of the Indiana Jones movies - I can't remember which one - is popped into the DVD player, the logs are crackling in the fireplace, and I'm sitting on the sofa with a blanket on my lap waiting for Scully to join me.

I hear her hopping down the stairs and she greets me fondling my neck.

 _Oh yeah, keep doing that, Scully!_

"Sorry for letting you wait," she apologizes and makes herself comfortable on the other side of the sofa. Without asking or hesitating she puts her feet on my lap and I can't keep myself from rejoicing over the fact that this has become the most natural thing for her. I pull the blanket over her feet and tuck them in.

"Ready to start?" I ask, handing her her bowl of popcorn.

"Sure," she answers. "I love that movie."

I'm startled by the remark. How does she know she loves it? Tonight is meant to be a relaxing fun evening for us, no therapy session, so I don't inquire but grab the remote and start the movie.

It's the third part, 'Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade', and she surprises me again when she says even before the opening credits appear on the screen, "you know, I love Sean Connery in this one."

She remembers Connery in that movie, but not me in her life.

It hurts.

As we watch and nibble our popcorn, I forget our situation for a while and enjoy the leisure. She's laughing every once in a while, and after about half of the movie she pulls her feet out of my lap and puts her head on instead. My hand instinctively goes to her waist, and when I realize it, I leave it there when she's not protesting.

When the closing credits roll down the screen, an overwhelming desire to stroke her hair floods me. I do what I've already done a million times, I tuck a strand behind her ear. The feel of my fingertips on the velvety skin behind her ear, the fine, tiny hair there that reminds me of a ripe peach's bloom, makes me want to touch her even more. I venture to stroke her cheek and her neck ever so gently in the strong belief that she's fast asleep. She always falls asleep watching a movie, I can't remember one single movie night she hasn't, so I'm thunderstruck when I hear her moan into my lap, "mmm, that's nice."

I pull my hand away from her skin so quickly as if I'd touched a hot baking dish.

"Don't stop doing that, Fox, I like it," she encourages me.

She's awake. Well, that's definitely something new. And she wants me to caress her. How can I not fulfill her wish? So I stroke her hair all the way from her scalp to where it lays on her shoulder. I tickle the spot behind her ear, and she's as sensitive there as she's ever been, fidgeting under my paws. I let my fingertips travel down to where her neck meets her shoulder and draw little circles there.

She enjoys what I'm doing, I can tell. Her body relaxes more and more, she shifts slightly to give me a better angle to her neck. She's totally at ease, maybe for the first time since she was found in that parking lot. It fills me with joy that I'm able to make her feel this way. A few days ago she made me relax with giving me a wonderful massage, I'm more than willing to return the favor.

She rolls over on her back, her head still on my lap.

"You do know what I like, don't you?" she asks, her eyes so full of trust I almost choke.

I nod.

She shows me a smile I cannot really interpret. Is it content? Discernment? Resolve?

My question is being answered when she reaches up, puts a hand behind my neck and pulls me down until our noses almost touch. Without another word, she lifts her head a little to let her lips meet mine. Does her statement, that I know what she likes, mean she wants me to kiss her the way I know she likes?

 _Go for it, Mulder!_

I part her lips with the tip of my tongue, cautiously at first, more vigorously when she willingly lets me in. I let my tongue dance with hers, not in a passionate tango, in a slow waltz. I suck in her lower lip gently and scrape it with my teeth. She used to like it when we started low-key, kissing each other softly, allowing us to take our time until passion would take over eventually and turn the timid nibbling and grazing into a make-out session deserving the term.

The implication that she'd make me want her that much, that she'd fuel my desire in a way that left me all passionate, used to turn her on, so I'm taking it up a notch, kissing her more fiercely, asking the band in my head to play a quickstep instead of a slow waltz. We fall into the faster rhythm easily. I'm the one leading but she follows me willingly, lets me twirl her around and bend her down.

Oh my, this is wonderful! She tastes like popcorn and beer, and even though I usually detest unsalted popcorn I want more, more, more of it!

I hope I'm not overdoing it again like the last time we kissed, in her room at the clinic, when she pushed me away and hasn't asked for another kiss ever since.

My misgivings are crumbled into dust when, in an acrobatic maneuver, she pushes herself up and into a kneeling position next to me, her lips never leaving mine. Next moment, I feel her straddle me. She cups my cheeks, then her tongue darts into my mouth and grazes the teeth of my upper jaw. I'm totally overcome with my emotions and act by pure instinct when I reciprocate the kiss hard, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer.

She groans into my mouth and all I can do is groan back. She might've forgotten the essentials of her life, but she hasn't forgotten how to turn me on, that's for sure. She rolls her hips on my lap and my groin responds adequately. This is getting far too fast for me. If I don't stop it now, I might not be able to contain myself anymore shortly.

"Oumpf, Scully. Too...much...stimulus," I manage to hiss through my teeth.

"I noticed," she replies laconically, rolling her hips once again in a manner the response from my best friend down there isn't long in coming. When she starts fumbling at the buttons of my shirt, my mushy brain is only able to form one coherent thought: she wants this.

 _She's seducing you, Mulder! She's turning you on, making you totally submissive with her eager ministrations!_

I'm in hormonal mode now, completely controlled by my primal desires. I pull the hem of her shirt up and my hands slip under it, making contact with her silky skin. This time, I'm not pulling back.

She gasps, and it feels me with glee that I'm obviously not the only one losing control here.

"Touch me," she whispers into my ear while nibbling at my earlobe.

"Where?"

"I hoped you were going to show me what I liked," she murmurs now into my mouth again.

 _Your wish is my command, woman!_

I cup her breasts and squeeze them gently through her bra. The way she whimpers sends a shiver through my spine all the way down to my groin.

Is this really happening? Is this leading to where I think it's leading? The signals she's sending out definitely point in that direction.

I stop for a moment, wanting to offer her a way out if she feels she's taken us too far. "Are you sure you want this, Scully?"

She looks at me, and what I see in her eyes reminds me of our very first time, when she looked at me the exact same way. Her expression is full of calm serenity mixed with curiosity, determination, and...yes, want.

"Show me how we used to make love, Fox," she breathes, her voice low and raspy.

I bet my grin is as goofy as it can be.

My prayers have been answered, I'm finally allowed to show her how much I adore her. But not here, not on the living room couch. I want to do this right, not rush through it like a horny teenager which had long been kept at arm's length. I want to take my time, savor her. I want her to feel loved and desired, to fully understand the essence of our relationship, what we had before she was taken.

I make her slide off of me, take her hand and lead her upstairs. I know she doesn't like to be carried.

When, after we'd gotten married, I was about to lift her up to carry her over the threshold of the motel room, she laughed at me. "Seriously, Mulder?" she said when I bent down, "you're really considering to carry me over the threshold to a low-budget motel room right in this one-horse town in the middle of nowhere?" I have to concede it wasn't a very romantic retreat, not in the least worthy of the occasion, but I had a freshly signed wedding certificate in the inside pocket of my suit jacket and I had just spoken my vows to the woman I had called my touchstone once, I was in a maudlin mood and I wanted to be a traditional groom and carry my beautiful bride over that goddamn threshold. No way she would let me. And she wouldn't let me carry her over the threshold to our house when we first move in either.

Now we are facing a threshold again, and I don't mean just the one to our bedroom. I hesitate, the question of whether to lift her up or not being the last of my problems.

Am I taking advantage of her in a currently weak moment? Have I started it all in the first place with stroking her hair at the end of the movie? What if it's too early and she'll regret it tomorrow morning? Will crossing the piece of timber under our bedroom door right now be a step too huge?

I'm still racking my brain when she squeezes herself past me, holding my hand and pulling me inside with her. She takes my other hand and leads me to the bed, taking slow steps backward. When her calves hit the wooden frame, she sits down and makes me step between her legs. I get down on my knees to be at eye level with her, I don't want her to stare at the bulge in my pants.

My misgivings aren't gone completely just because we're past the door, but I'm beginning to believe she really wants this to happen and a wave of anticipation and arousal washes over me. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" I ask her.

"From how you've been caring for me these past months, yes, I think I do."

I bury my nose in the hair behind her ear and take in the mixture of her natural scent and that of her shampoo and perfume.

"God, Scully, I missed you so much."

"Thank you for letting me set the pace, for letting me decide when I wanted to do this."

"You are really sure?" I doublecheck, images of thresholds popping up in front of my mind's eye again.

"Fox?"

"Hmm?"

"Stop talking and show me how much you missed me!"

Bang! All my misgivings are atomized!

 _If you ask this nicely._

I slip my hands under the hem of her shirt again and place them at her waist, squeezing it gently. She's so tiny, I can almost span her midriff completely. She sucks in her breath, then licks her lower lip. Our eyes are locked and the intensity of her gaze would've forced me down on my knees hadn't I already been on them. I let my hands travel higher, slowly, sweeping every single of her ribs like a piano player practicing scales until I reach the silky underside of her breasts.

"You used to like when I was doing this," I say while my thumbs are caressing her there. "Still do?"

"Uh huh."

Next, I cup both breasts and knead them tenderly, simultaneously trailing feathery kisses from her collarbone up to her jawline, first on the right side, then on the left.

"What about this?" I ask.

"Mmhmm," is all I get as an answer.

When my lips reach the spot behind her left ear, I hear her voice again which sounds surprisingly calm and controlled now.

"This is nice, but tell me, Fox, did I really like being dressed when you were doing this to me?"

I'm startled for a moment by her straightforwardness, then I silently shake my head.

"That's what I thought." She comments my inability to speak with a self-satisfied grin. "So this," she undoes the last buttons of my shirt, "needs to come off now."

She pulls my shirt off of me. It dangles for a few seconds from her outstretched hand, then she lets it fall carelessly to the ground.

She scrutinizes my torso and I'm thrilled to see delight in her eyes. She puts her hands on my chest and slides her fingers up and down and through the sparse hair. The way she bites her bottom lip while she takes in my body makes me crazy. When she whispers "so beautiful" while her paws encircle my breast muscles, I almost come but manage to pull myself out of my precarious condition by pointing out something obvious.

"Now you're a bit overdressed."

"Any idea how to get even?"

Her voice has inherited a playful ring I haven't heard for the longest time but isn't a stranger to me.

"Definitely," I moan and fumble at the hem of her shirt. I pull her out of it in a quick swoosh and the garment joins mine on the floor.

I sit back on my heels to be able to look at her as a whole, to remind me that this is really happening.

Scully's sitting right in front of me, on our bed, really and truly sitting there. Her upper body is only covered in a simple white cotton bra, nothing one would call a sexy piece of lingerie, which makes me realize that this is totally unplanned. Her cheeks are rosy, her lips are swollen and slightly parted, and her eyes have this glint I've seen in them often at the onset of foreplay.

Pure temptation.

When she reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra, my heart threatens to stop beating. When she brushes one strap off her shoulder, then the second, letting the garment slide down her arms and onto the ground, I watch her every move as if she was a hypnotist dangling a locket in front of my face.

How is it possible that this woman, who's been so unsure about herself for the past eight weeks in our mundane everyday routine together in this house, is now so straightforward in the bedroom? Not that I'm complaining.

My eyes must betray me because she asks, "you like them?"

"Oh, yessss," I rejoice.

She looks down at her chest and shrugs apologetically.

"Aren't they a bit small?"

"Absolutely not! They're perfect!"

To prove my words, I scoot over and cup each breast with one hand, enclosing them completely with my long fingers, skin on skin this time. When I begin kneading them, she whimpers.

"Does this feel good, Scully?" I ask.

"Feels okay."

 _I beg your pardon? Okay?_

I don't want her to feel 'okay', although I'm not completely sure whether she's teasing me or not. I want her to feel amazing, ecstatic, weightless, mind-blowingly good. So I open my book of One Hundred Ways to Seduce Scully.

Chapter One: Start Low-key  
Roll her nipples between your thumb and index finger. You'll get a reaction right away.

And there it is! Her back straightens and I see her bite the inside of her cheek in an effort to control herself. Yeah, yeah, yeah, she feels 'okay'...ha!

"Better?" I ask innocently.

"Slightly."

Yes, this is how I love my Scully! Joining in the game, yet unwilling to yield too quickly. Alright, next move!

Chapter Two: Make Your Intentions Clear  
Leave your fingers where they are and continue your ministrations to her nipples. Place a soft kiss at her sternum. She'll tilt her head back to give you a better access.

She's not disappointing me.

 _You're so easy, Scully!_

Chapter Three: Add Another Sensation  
Kiss your way down to her cleavage. Give both breasts the full attention of your tongue. Leave wet trails around her nipples.

The sweet buds instantly harden in response. I can almost hear her curse her body for its natural reaction.

 _Every stimulus causes a response, Dr. Scully! Gotcha!_

"What about now?" I venture.

"P-pretty good," she admits, her breath a bit more ragged than before.

"Are you interested in finding out what else you liked?"

"Sure."

"Alright, I'm gonna show you," I say, gently pushing her back. "Lie down."

She leans backward until her full body is stretched out on the mattress. Her eyes are two deep pools of blue I want to drown myself in. And I will. Later. For now, I want us out of the remaining clothes.

"Would you mind if we got rid of these terribly annoying and totally superfluous pieces of clothing, Scully?"

"I was afraid you'd never ask."

I'm not willing to lose any time.

I undo the button of her pants, pull the zipper down, grab the waistband, and slide the pesky garment down. When I'm at her ankles, I take with it the thick woolen socks she wears every evening to keep her feet from freezing. When I fumble at her undies, her hand flies down to stop me.

"Nuh-uh, this is a step-by-step transaction, Mr. Mulder. Your turn!"

 _No prob!_

I'm quick at stripping out of my pants and have no problems at all heading for an advance payment, so my boxers go right with them. I smirk when I hear her take a sharp intake of breath.

I keep myself from saying something, I just challenge her with my eyes. Sure enough, she purses her lips, hooks her fingers into the waistband of her underpants, a simple, unfussy piece matching her bra, and pulls them down. Slowly, inch by inch, just to counter my frenzy performance.

We're both stark naked now and I can't but admire her beauty.

Her body hasn't changed a bit. I'm glad the killer hasn't left his marks on her, it would've been difficult to deal with them. Her milky skin and her soft curves are the same alluring perfection like when I last saw her like this.

I position myself alongside her, propping me up on my elbow, drinking her in from head to toe and back. When my eyes find hers again, I see it has cost her a lot to let herself get ogled like that.

I place my index finger at her throat and let it travel down her chest, between her breasts, past her belly button, before I come to a rest on her belly. My hand is big and almost covers her entire abdomen. "I've seen you like this many times, Scully. There's no need to be embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed, just a bit...nervous."

Not good. I don't want her to be nervous, or maybe even anxious. We were always relaxed in bed, playful, open for fun and also for experiments. At times, we were even what others might call kinky, but we'd never been uneasy.

After a short moment of confusion, I realize where her nervousness comes from. She doesn't know what to expect, she can't remember our interplay, how we do foreplay or our favorite positions. Hell, she can't even remember what she preferred, what she'd asked me a thousand times to do to pleasure her. I have got the drop on her, knowing the do's and don't's of our lovemaking by heart, and I haven't really given a thought to how intimidating this must be for her. For her, it's like being with me for the first time, and I remember how nervous I was on our first night.

I bring my mouth to her ear, tickle the fine hair behind it with my breath before I whisper, "Tell me what you want, Scully. You know what you like, you don't need me to tell you. We can stop here, if this what you want, or we can go on. Whatever you ask for will happen."

She licks her lower lip, then chews it. Oh boy, she definitely is nervous.

"Scully, we were never shy to voice our fantasies in bed, we don't have to start now. Just tell me how you want this to be done. I'll be fine with whatever it is. I feared I'd never be able to make love to you again, so this is already so much more than I allowed myself to hope for. Don't think I can be disappointed, I can't."

"I," she starts, but her guts instantly abandon her.

"What?" I ask, hoping I sound calm and patient.

"I want...connection, Fox. I don't need passion tonight, or ecstasy. I don't need to come. All I want is to be as close to you as I can. I want to feel you...in me. I want to feel _us_. Us together. That's all I want. Does that sound stupid?"

What else can I do but smile at her? This woman is so lovely and so sweet, so incredibly touching in her honest confession. I place a kiss on her forehead and assure her, "not at all. It makes a lot of sense."

I see the tension flow out of her body like air out of a balloon, and I curse myself for having overseen it in the first place. This is going to be a night of endearment, of kissing and cuddling, of comfort and secureness, and of nothing else.

I don't know how long we explored each others' bodies, how long I drew circles around the little dimples at the tip of her spine, how long she stroked up and down my chest with her fingertips. I don't know how often I kissed her or how much time I spent fondling her breasts. All I do know is that from a certain point onward, things got a little out of hand. Our kisses became fiercer, our touches more passionate. Scully entangled her legs with mine and pressed her body so close, I could feel every muscle of hers flex. With her hungry tongue in my mouth, I pulled her on top of me. The weight of her body on mine, her breasts poking into my chest, I reached for her sweet little tush and squeezed the firm flesh. It made her hips buck, which in turn made my best member respond. She noticed, of course, but she didn't pull back. She intensified the kiss, devouring me, moving her body over mine to increase the friction between her skin and mine.

I'm at a point now where I can't control my instincts anymore. In one quick maneuver, I flip us over putting me on top, completely overshadowing her small frame with my body. My face is hovering above hers. She looks at me with bright, unclouded eyes, rendering me motionless, and I'm losing myself in the infinite depth of her pupils. I don't see any doubt in them, no hesitation or insecurity, and still, I ask, "Are you sure?"

We both know what I'm talking about. She whispers a soft yes accompanied by a short nod, I settle down between her legs, and then, not exactly planned when I started the preparations for this movie night with placing the popcorn in the microwave, but wonderfully so, we are one, the connection she said she wanted finally established. It doesn't get any closer than this, she, taking me in, and I, filling her up. This is us, and it feels so good.

"Mmmulllderrr," I hear her hum, every syllable of my name rolling off her tongue like honey off a spoon. The sensation in my lumbar region mixed with what my acoustic nerve passes on to the synapses in my brain leaves me in a state of absolute bliss.

What? What did she just call me?

Any effort of further cognitive evaluation of her words is thwarted by what she's doing with her hips. I don't have enough blood left in my brain to be able to put two and two together as it travels down South at lightspeed. They way she clutches me, inside and outside, won't let me last very much longer.

Too. Much. Stimulus.

"Scully, take it down a notch, will ya?" I beg.

"HmmmmmulderMulderMulderMulderrrrr," she purrs her response.

I try to control my arousal with a few deep breaths through my nose. In vain. She just pushes too fiercely to allow me to calm down, clutching my waist as if her thighs were a vice, obviously not willing to slow down, not even a tiny bit.

"What are you doing to me, G-Woman?"

"I'm feeling you," she murmurs full of elation.

As by a miracle, I'm able to gather my thoughts for a split-second to reply, "nothing has changed, Scully. You mean the world to me. You _are_ my world."

And as we gaze at each other, our bodies go for what they long for, the final release. It doesn't need much more than one or two hip rolls from Scully to send us both over the edge. I close my eyes and stars are bursting behind my eyelids, the sensation so strong and overwhelming, it lets my limbs shake uncontrollably in the wake of my orgasm. She said she didn't need to come tonight, but she is indeed coming right now. I feel her fingernails sink into my back, her thigh muscles flex, and her inner walls contract. A deep moan escapes her throat and I hear her heave a satisfied sigh riding out her high.

It takes me several minutes to regain consciousness, so it seems. I inhale and exhale a few times to steady my heartbeat. Sex with Scully has always been terrific, but this experience tonight is unparalleled. It was so much more than just satisfying a physical lust, not that I ever complained when it was. Tonight has been a spiritual experience almost, and I'm still a bit dazed.

"That was...surprising," she states, still a bit out of breath.

"I didn't overpower you, did I?"

"No. I wanted it."

"It was very intense, that's all I can say."

"Very."

"You called me Mulder."

"I know. Not on purpose, it just came out of my mouth. It felt right."

"Right?"

"Uh huh."

Silence, then she starts speaking again.

"Mulder," she croons with her eyes closed, "this whole thing between us feels so right."

She opens her eyes and hypnotizes me with her gaze. I'm still hovering above her, trying to keep my weight off her resting it on my elbows which are propped up beside her sweaty ribcage.

She's about to say something big, I can see it. My heart is pounding in my chest and I think I'm holding my breath. I look at her face and try to read in her eyes what she's going to say to me, asking myself simultaneously whether I'm prepared for what I'm going to hear.

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

I'm not!

 _Breathe, Mulder! Breathe!_

"I don't know whether it's the old feeling coming back or a new one developing, all I can say is that I'm falling in love with you."

"That is...that's...it's just...God, Scully," I stammer and kiss her, "you're making me a very happy man!"

She smiles, but something is bothering her. Her eyes flutter nervously and she licks her lips.

"What's the matter?" I ask her.

"What if my memories never come back? What if I never again become the person I used to be?"

The apprehension contorting her face cuts my heart in two.

"You still _are_ the same person, Scully. You're my Scully. You just have to give her time to set herself free."

"What if I can't? Ever?"

"Then I won't love you any less."

"Are you sure you want to live with a woman who forgot who you were?" Her tone is provocative and challenging as if she wants my answer to be no.

Her tone is provocative and challenging as if she wants my answer to be no.

"If I'm being honest, I have to say that it wouldn't be easy for me to deal with your amnesia being permanent. Our past is so abundant with an almost infinite variety of events, wonderful as well as dreadful ones. We've been through so much together, and it's made our relationship what it is: extraordinary and one of a kind. I've never had a friend I felt so close to, a partner I trusted that much, a soulmate I shared more secrets with, a lover I found more alluring, and a wife I...well, I was never married before. Jesus, Scully, you knew me better than my mother, better than I knew myself."

"You realize you're speaking in the past tense," she points out flatly. "That's how it's used to be, Mulder. Not anymore. Nowadays, I don't know your favorite dish or whether you like to be on top during sex."

"Oh, come on, that's not very helpful. There's absolutely no use in being so hard on yourself."

"You said it yourself. It wouldn't be easy for you to deal with me being this person who doesn't remember what our relationship was like."

"There are many things in my life that are not easy for me. Ironing dress shirts, baking apple pie, staying away from the X-Files, just to name a few, and yet I manage to get along nicely."

"But I don't want to be something you to get along _nicely_ with."

"Scully, listen, I love you. My life is worth nothing if you're not in it. Just the idea of our paths being separated...I mean, it's not a valid concept for me, not at all. I don't want...I can't...live without you. And I certainly won't because you're suffering from a bodily condition that has been inflicted on you against your will."

"I don't need your pity," she shoots back.

I groan, a sudden anger flushing my body.

"You know what, Scully? Actually, you haven't changed that much. You're still the same stubborn, pigheaded pain in the neck, who'd rather plow ahead on her own for fear to appear weak or, which God may forbid, vulnerable than ask your best, most intimate friend for help."

She looks at me with wide eyes, obviously taken aback by my unexpected outburst. But I've had it with her feeling of guilt. She's got nothing to feel guilty about. She's the victim here. She was abducted, held hostage, harmed, hit on the head, drugged, or whatever, abandoned...why on earth does she think it's her fault we have to deal with the amnesia?

"Have I really been a stubborn, pigheaded pain in the neck?" she whispers.

"At times, yes, but adorable as such," I say in a much softer tone than before. Of course, I regret what I said, but this goddamn severity she treats herself with simply drives me up the wall sometimes.

My eyes find hers and for a moment we stare at each other, neither of us daring to blink. It's me who has to look away first.

"Anyway, who said I pitied you?"

She looks at her hands which she's kneading so hard I'm afraid she might break a finger. "Nobody," she eventually admits timidly.

I stifle a heavy sigh. "Right, nobody."

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she says eventually, "I guess I was being unfair. I just don't want you to feel obliged to stick around."

I simply look at her, an eyebrow raised.

"Uh, that's not really better, is it?"

I shake my head. "Try again."

She chews her lips, is carefully weighing the words before she lets the cat out of the bag. "It's not easy for me to be so dependent on you." She swallows hard, the lump in her throat must be gigantic. I want to take her in my arms and rock her, but I know she needs to finish her line. She inhales deeply before she continues. "But I trust you enough to let myself fall as long as you're standing behind me."

"I am and always will be."

Silence.

We both need a bit to let the weight sink in of what has been said between us. To me, it feels like another marriage vow, and maybe it is. Yes, we've actually renewed our vows, promising to be always there for each other, to always sail the storms together.

"Scully, you are familiar with the principle of 'for better, for worse', aren't you? Our love for each other is no blue-sky concept, we've been together through thick and thin. Actually, times were bad more often than they were good for you since you started hanging out with me, and you've stuck around. Did you really believe I'd be wasting a single thought about leaving you? The idea is so odd and so absurd, it makes me want to scream."

"Really?" she whispers.

"Really," I answer in the most assertive tone I can manage.

The usual post-coital sleepiness has been swept away by our talk and I don't feel like lying back down at all. This night is too special, the step we've just taken too huge to allow sleep to put an end to it.

"It's a beautiful night, Scully, not a cloud in the sky. What do you think, shall we sit outside for a while? I make some tea, wrap us in a blanket, and we look at the stars," I suggest, hoping the idea doesn't sound too crazy to her.

Her furrowed brows tell me she's indecisive.

Well, maybe it is a crazy idea. It's way past midnight and Scully easily gets cold.

"Do I have some flannel pajamas?"

"You sure do. You put them on the top shelf of your closet for the warm season."

" _I_ put them there?"

"Okay, you made _me_ put them there for you," I smirk. "I'm always happy to be at service to my adorably tiny wife," I sweet-talk.

"Wipe that grin off your face, ooze charmer!"

I throw my hand up in the air and remind her, "you started it."

She smiles. "You're right. Stupid me."

As she doesn't move, nor say something, I have no idea whether or not she's up for some stargazing or not. "So? Care to join me on the porch swing?" I therefore ask.

She contemplates another moment, maybe only to punish me for having teased her, before self-contained Scully gets the better of her.

"You go downstairs and put the kettle onto the stove, and I get a stool!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X**

I wake up in the middle of the night. The clock on the nightstand tells me it's 4:40 a.m. Being still half asleep, I'm not sure whether what happened earlier in this bed has only been a sweet dream, but then I feel the warmth radiating from her body. My hand finds her curled under the duvet only a few inches away from me and I remember everything. Every word, every touch, every kiss, as well as the grand finale.

When we were out on the porch, relishing our afterglow, a strong certainty manifested itself that we're going to be just fine. With Scully snuggled into my side, the starry sky above us, a peaceful satisfaction was settling itself upon me because I have all I need to be happy. After we'd talked about the stars, about how they are born and how they die, about how vast the universe is and how small we are in comparison, she fell asleep in my arms and I was allowed to carry her over the threshold and upstairs into the bedroom after all.

I roll onto my side and slide behind her, spooning her from head to toe. I put my arms around her waist and nestle her head under my chin. I inhale deeply through my nose and can't help noticing the smell of sex on her.

We did it. We mastered yet another crisis.

How many storms have we sailed together? Our bounceback abilities are unmatched. I know we're not through yet, that Scully is still struggling with her memory loss, and might go on struggling for quite some time, but we found ourselves again. As long as we're together, we're unbreakable.

I close my eyes, join in her breathing rhythm, and before I know it, I'm drifting off to sleep again.

Next time I wake up, I do so fairly aware of our nightly lovemaking, only shortly uncertain when I find the spot beside me empty and cold, but her scent is still there. It tells me that it has not been a dream. And then I hear her coming up the stairs, each wooden step creaking even under her light weight.

She walks through the doorframe with a tray in her hands.

"Good morning," she says, obviously well rested and in high spirits. "I thought you might like some coffee."

I prop myself up and lean my back against the headboard before I take the mug she's offering me. "Thanks. Since when are you an early riser?" I ask her.

"Since I've forgotten that I'm actually a long sleeper, I guess."

She chuckles into her coffee mug.

"Come back to bed," I say, folding back the duvet, hoping she'll take her robe off and slip under it again.

"I already took a shower," she objects to my chagrin.

She ties her robe a little tighter, obviously not willing to join me in bed again. She places herself next to me on the covers though, placing herself under my arm, using my chest as her backrest. I would've preferred her naked under the sheets with me, but that's not too bad either.

We sip our coffees in silence for a moment, then she disengages herself out of my embrace, sits upright, and looks at me.

"I've been thinking," she says.

"About what?"

I'm not sure what to expect, that's why my insides start tying a knot.

She hesitates as if she knew I won't like what I'm going to hear.

"I want to read the files to our cases."

I feel like I've been slapped in the face.

"No way!" I stress my rejection vehemently shaking my head.

"Please, Mulder!"

"There must be hundreds. There are far too many for you to read," I try.

I have to talk her out of it. If there was one positive thing related to her amnesia, then it would be the chance to spare her some of the horrible details of her past.

"I don't have to read all of them. You pick the most important ones and decide in which order and when I read them."

"No!" I simply say, hoping it sounds like a resolute final answer.

"I know you're only trying to protect me, but I need to know about our work," she stubbornly insists.

"Why? There were so many ugly cases. The X-Files didn't have so much to do with usual police work, Scully. We were confronted with the weirdest circumstances of a crime. I don't see any good reason why you should be reading them. Anyway, the doctors are saying said your memory mustn't be triggered, that it has to come back on its own."

"But it's not coming back!" She's yelling now. "Don't you see that I'm completely lost? The bits of information you've been giving me don't make a whole picture. What you told me about our child, about us working together, about this house, and our relationship...I can't put the pieces together. I feel like I'm doing one of those brain-teaser puzzles where there's only one way to build a perfect cube, and I'm trying and trying and trying, but no matter how I assemble the pieces, I'm not able to solve the puzzle. And it drives me crazy."

"How would reading the X-Files help you?" I ask, my resistance already crumbling after this outburst of emotions.

"I have the feeling that I'll find the answers to most of my questions in them."

"What questions?"

"You told me that there was no other option for me than giving our son up for adoption, and I believe you. But I need to know what led me to that point in my life that I had to give my baby away." Her voice is tear-stricken but firm. "I have this metal object in my neck and-"

I'm shocked and choke on my coffee. "Where did you get that from?"

"They made a CT scan of my head at the hospital to find out where the amnesia came from. It was clearly visible in the picture." Her hand goes to her neck. "And I can feel it under my skin."

"What else?" I ask through gritted teeth. I'm not sure I want to hear it, though.

"I dipped into my medical records, Mulder, and I found out I had nasopharyngeal cancer, an inoperable tumor between my cerebrum and sinus."

I stare at her. I feel like a bucket of ice-water has been emptied over my head.

"I'm a medical doctor, Mulder. I know that the chances to survive that sort of cancer were zero. How come I'm sitting here next to you, alive and well? I'm in remission for more than ten years now, I'd call that a medical sensation!"

"Scullyyy," I groan. I'm running out of arguments already and she's still not done listing the question preying on her mind.

"We used to be city people, Mulder, living within commuting distance from the Hoover building. I know from old letters I found in the little drawer of the bureau in the living room. And now we live here in this unremarkable house, so remote and far away from everybody else, with a locking gate and barbed wire at the property boundary that I'm asking myself whether we're hiding from someone."

After catching a short breath she opens her mouth again, but this time I stop her. "Enough!"

She throws me a somewhat unfazed look, eyebrows raised, lips pursed.

"I got it," I continue, "I got it. It's just that I hate to see you hurting, and these files will make you, believe me. You have no idea what you've been through, what you and I have been through."

"I don't want to do this alone. I want you to guide me through this. You decide which files I read and when I read them. I need you with me in this. You're the only one who can explain things to me. You're the only one I trust."

The last sentence puts the final nail in the coffin. I'm going to do it. I'm going to let her get re-acquainted with the X-Files. Goddamnit! How could I have been so naïve to believe I could keep them from her forever?

"Alright then," I voice my inevitable concession.

She's relieved but not triumphant that she managed to persuade me. She's well aware that it's not going to be an easy read.

"How about I start with our last case? I was taken by a serial killer who held me hostage for almost three months before abandoning me in a parking lot." Before I can ask her, she explains, "I did some research, Mulder. The internet, newspaper archives, your office."

"My office?"

"There are newspaper clippings all over the place. It was impossible to oversee the one with the headline 'Former Female FBI Agent Reported Missing' circled in red ink."

"I see."

 _You're a negligent jackass, Mulder!_

"Wouldn't that be a good file to start?"

"Probably, but that particular one is not an X-File. The X-Files were closed several years ago and have never been re-opened. For the better, I guess. The serial killer is just a regular VCU case."

I chuckle bitterly. 'Just a regular VCU' case, as if this alone made the whole thing less ugly and cruel.

"Why were you involved in that case anyway if it wasn't an X-File?"

"The agent in charge knew me from when I'd been a profiler with Violent Crimes before I transferred to the X-Files. They were at a dead end with the case and he asked me for help. How could I say no? Innocent women were being abducted and killed."

"Why wasn't I killed?" she asks oddly detached as if she wasn't talking about herself.

 _Okay, Mulder, yet another story you have to tell her where being associated with you turned her into a victim. There will be the day she realizes that tarrying with you has been the biggest mistake of her life._

Her eyebrows hit the hairline while I keep her waiting for my answer. And that look she shoots me...oh, how I know that look! 'Spit it out, Mulder,' it says. She knows that I'm hiding something from her and she won't let me off the hook until I tell her. She never has. So I give up my resistance, not without heaving a deep sigh though.

"You weren't his type."

 _Nice try, but you don't really believe she'll content herself with this, do you?_

"Why did he take me then?"

If the earth opened up under me and swallowed me just now, I wouldn't mind.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, well, you were..."

Instead of completing the sentence, I clear my throat, and, eventually, she's run out of patience. "You don't want to tell me that with abducting me he actually meant to affect you."

I close my eyes and groan.

 _Do you have any idea how this makes me feel, Scully?_

"I'm right, aren't I?"

I open my eyes and bore them into her.

"Yesss, you _are_ right!" I hiss, sharply emphasizing every single word. "That freak waited for you in our house, bore down upon you in the kitchen, dragged you through the living room, and took you. He held you captive for three months, did God only knows what to you to erase your memory, and left you at a deserted parking lot at a freezingly cold night to die. All of this, to punish me for having hunted him. And you know what, Scully?" I've talked myself into a rage that much that I just can't stop, "it wasn't the first time you were taken and harmed because somebody wanted to teach me a lesson. You were used as leverage on me so often that I really can't understand why you haven't sent me to hell ever."

My outburst isn't intimidating her one bit. She looks at me, all composed and calm. "I guess, I didn't want those sons of bitches to get through with it, and..." She presses her lips together and shrugs. Turning away from me, she purrs, "I must have been madly in love with you."

I don't realize my jaw has dropped until she stands right in front of me again, lifts her hand to my chin, and pushes it shut.

"Madly in love, huh?" I manage to mumble.

"Nothing else would explain it," she supplies in such a casual tone, looking me deadly serious in the face, that I have to chuckle.

"That was a masterstroke, wasn't it?" I supply, mentally patting myself on the shoulder.

"What was?"

"That I made you fall madly in love with me."

"Hmmm..." she purses her lips and furrows her brows in a gesture so overtly mocking me, I feel beamed back to the time when she used to comment on the wild theories I was supplying just like this.

She takes a few steps away from me, then stops in her tracks, turns around, folds her arms in front of her chest, lifts her chin, and scrutinizes me from head to toe before adding, "who says it wasn't me who checkmated you?"

Now my eyebrows are taking a hike. I'm speechless.

"I've been told that first time we landed in bed was on my initiative. What if this was the final strategic stroke of a long-term plan to make _you_ fall in love with _me_?...Madly."

Jesus, how I love 'Playful Scully'!

I made acquaintance with this side of her the day after our first night of love. When I woke up, she was already gone, a note on the nightstand telling me she'd meet me at Skinner's office at 9 a.m. for our weekly meeting with him. When I approached Skinner's desk later that morning, my pulse hitting the ceiling, she was sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk in her shortest and tightest skirt, her legs crossed for it to ride high up her thigh. She smiled innocently at me, piercing right through me with her steel-blue eyes, and asked me in the most business-like tone, 'You look a bit exhausted, Mulder. Rough night?' And then she crossed her legs the other way to let me see the lace top of her tights. My mind was racing and my throat was so dry, I wasn't able to answer any of Skinner's questions for the following ten minutes.

Later on, when I asked her why she'd tortured me like that she just countered, 'if you want last night to have a sequel, you better learn to put up a poker face in front of Skinner, because today, Agent Mulder, you gave a very poor performance.'

Of course, I wanted our first time to be followed by many sequels, so I was fast in developing a technique to keep my hormones in check at work. It involved picturing her with that green beauty mask she'd put on her face during the undercover assignment that made us act as a couple. My next meeting with Skinner must've gone better because the topic didn't come up again. It didn't keep my partner-slash-lover seated across from me at our desk from undoing a button to let me get a glimpse of a red lace bra, though, or from coating her voluptuous lips with the red lipstick I adored so much and licking them while at a debriefing with our boss.

Cruel Scully. Intoxicating Scully.

My heart aches for that Scully. I miss her so very much.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI**

Over the past weeks, Scully has been reading quite a few X-Files. The first one I gave her was the one to our first case in Bellefleur, Oregon. I've put together what I hope is a representative collection of our work, sparing her the most horrible cases, the ones with tortured victims or harmed children. Some make her laugh, some make her look at me with her eyebrow hitting her hairline, some clearly incite her scientific interest, some make her gasp, and some put an expression of terror and shock on her face.

What I don't like about this reading process is that she isn't talking to me about how she copes with all this crazy crap. Does is make any sense or is it all science fiction to her? Does she think that the work we were so dedicated to was nothing but a wild-goose chase? She probably doesn't remember that I once told her I hadn't made the world a happier place, and if she asked me now whether it was worth it, whether my obsession with the X-Files was worth all the pain, the grief, and the loss, I wouldn't know how to answer her.

She spends a lot of time in the huge wing chair by the fireplace these days, cross-legged, an X-File on her lap, her reading glasses on the tip of her nose, and a pot of tea on the coffee table. She sits there for hours, deeply buried in a file, unresponsive and ignorant to what's happening around her. There are days, I deliberately vacuum the living room and work extra extensively around the chair just to make her look up and interact with me, but I doubt she even notices what I'm doing. She'd said she wanted me to guide her through her getting re-acquainted with the X-Files but now she's doing it all alone, and I'm not convinced that this is the best way to do it.

The chair is empty now, after having been occupied by a reading Scully since breakfast. I'd put lunch on the table and she spoke maybe ten words with me during our otherwise silent meal. We never felt the urgency to fill the silence, to babble only to make a sound. We could sit in a car for hours without saying a word, each dwelling on their own thoughts, without feeling awkward for a second. But this silence doesn't feel comfortable, and it frightens me. After lunch, when she helped me clear the table and do the dishes, she was absentminded and again not very talkative. I even suggested she give her mom a call just to hear her voice but she shook her head and said she wanted to go for a walk. When I offered to join her, she explained that she needed some time to contemplate and rather go alone. I wasn't too happy about it but it was okay for me as I had planned to do some repairs around the house, fixing the loose contact of the living room floor lamp being one.

I'm just about to finish my job when I hear her open the screen door. I turn around, switch the light on and off and announce proudly, "I fixed the lamp."

Instead of patting me on the shoulder and congratulating me on my handicraft, she enters my personal space wordlessly, puts her hands on the back of my neck, and fondles my hair. When she leans in for a kiss I'm a bit surprised, but she tastes too good not to reciprocate adequately. So I let my tongue sweep the insides of her cheeks and my hands gently squeeze her waist.

"Mmmm, Scully," I mumble with my lips on hers, "I just fixed that cable. No big deal."

"I have something to tell you," she purrs into my ear after breaking the kiss which is obviously not meant as a reward for having fixed her reading lamp.

"Oh? Something good?"

I'm not sure. What did she need time alone to think about?

She looks at me, her eyes unreadable, and I decide not to try to imagine what she wants to say to me but just wait for her to start.

But she doesn't.

She presses her lips together and tucks her hair behind her ears. I'm glued to her lips, waiting for them to form some words, but all they do is wait to be licked once again. She clears her throat which makes me think she's about to talk, and her mouth does open but no sound emerges from it, instead, she closes it again and bites her lower lip.

 _C'mon, woman, don't let me starve here!_

"Scully! Would you please say something!"

"I don't know how."

Her ribcage rises and falls vigorously now with her heavy breathing.

"Just spit it out! Are you leaving me?"

Has this been her farewell kiss?

"What? No! Why would I leave you?"

"I don't know. Because you still don't know who I am? Because you still can't remember us?"

I stare at her and can't keep my eyes from filling with fearful tears. Of course, our happiness wasn't meant to be for good, what have I been thinking? Of course, fate played a trick on us, taking away from us the only good thing that has remained a constant in our lives which is our relationship.

"But I do," she whispers.

I'm confused, and I bet my face is showing it.

"You do what?"

"Remember us. Us together."

I better make sure there's no misunderstanding here. I've kept my hopes low all this time, never allowed them to get out of hand, always reminding myself that her amnesia might remain permanent. I only wanted to keep myself from breaking apart completely should it ever become a reality we have to deal with. So when I hear her say she remembers something, anything, I want to be sure I'm not mishearing.

"You do?"

She nods.

I'm a bit worried because her face is so earnest despite the best of news she's sharing. She seems insecure about it, so I don't dare to rejoice over it yet. There must be a check. One way or another, my knees feel like Jell-O and I have to sit down. I lower myself to the backrest of the living room couch for support.

"You remember?" I ask cautiously.

Another nod.

"Since when?"

"Have you fallen back into the phase of two-word sentences?" she replies, grinning noncommittally.

"Don't do this to me, Scully," I beg her in more than two words. "Answer my question. Since when do you remember? What do you remember?"

"It started a few weeks ago. Shortly after I began reading the files you gave me."

"A few weeks ago? Why haven't you said anything? How could you keep that from me? My heart was breaking for you because of your memory loss and you don't deem it worthy to tell me when it's coming back?"

I guess I sound a bit worked-up, but I am! How could she do this to me?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. They were just single, incoherent flashbacks at the beginning. More like déjà-vues than real memories. I couldn't tell whether I remembered something or whether I'd read it or had been told."

Shit! That's exactly what Dr. Pratt predicted would happen if we fed her memory with input.

 _I told you I didn't want you to read those damn files, Scully!_

"It took a while until things began to make sense to me, until I dared to believe in what I was remembering. If I had talked to you about it, it would've left me insecure yet again. I had to figure this out myself first."

"And? Have you figured it out?"

"Not all of it. I still miss a lot of memories, I guess, but I've got quite a few of them back."

She beams at me and I marvel what I am to make of her glowing face.

"So? What do you remember?" I ask, praying for her to remember mainly the good things that happened to her. Yes, there have been a few! Of course, there've been considerably more sad than happy moments, especially since she started hanging out with me. So, from a statistical point of view, it's much more likely that the horrible moments of her life creep back into her conscience than any of the rare joyful ones. But would she be beaming like she is right now if that were the case?

"What I mainly remember is..." She takes another step toward me and positions herself between my legs as I'm still sitting on the sofa's backrest. Her eyes are at level with mine and her glance is meaningful and also full of emotion. "Us," she says.

I swallow. "Us?"

"Yes, Mulder. Us." She moves yet a little closer and entangles her hands behind my neck. "I remember when we first met. How I rode the elevator all the way down to the basement of the Hoover Building, nervous to meet the infamous Fox Spooky Mulder."

I give a short laugh.

"I remember that when I saw you hunched over some of your beloved slides and you turned around to look at me, my first thought was 'Why hasn't anybody told me how cute he is?'"

"Oh, c'mon, Scully, you're making this up!"

"No, I swear it was my first thought. But, of course, my excitement quickly turned into bewilderment when you interrogated me about my beliefs in the extraterrestrial."

She smirks at me.

"That's more like it. What else do you remember?"

Her demeanor loses all of its playfulness in an instant. She stiffens, and to me, it's more than clear that she's not only recollected the fluffy moments.

"I remember having been abducted and left in a coma, and seeing immense relief in your eyes when I woke up. Relief and joy but also guilt. And I remember seeing the very same expression again when I told you that the cancer had gone into remission two years later."

"Ugh, yes. I had my difficulties coping with the diagnoses. Both times. I was afraid I'd lose you."

"That would explain the relief and the joy, but not the guilt."

"Scully, I was the root of what happened to you. If you hadn't accepted the assignment to work with me, you-"

She puts a finger to my mouth to stop me from finishing the sentence and shushes me. "I thought we'd already talked about my making choices and being responsible for my life."

"But-" I try again but am interrupted right away.

"No but. Don't reduce me to a tiny, brittle woman without the will nor the ability to determine her own life. I might not know everything about who or what I am, but I do know I'm no such person."

"No, definitely not. Tiny, yes, but definitely not brittle. You're the fiercest, toughest, and most strong-willed person I know, and that includes the male part of my acquaintances."

Her expression softens at the compliment. I guess she noticed my admiration was honest.

"You said you remembered 'us', Scully. What exactly did you mean by that?"

"That most of my memories circle around us. Us as partners, us as friends. As lovers. Parents." Her voice trails off. Its tone has changed within those few words from firm to insecure and finally sad. The way our relationship has evolved over the years couldn't be described any more pointedly.

"You remember us with William?"

She nods, then shakes her head. "There's something I really don't understand, Mulder."

She swallows away a lump that must be the size of a cantaloupe because of the extensive gulp she's taking to get rid of it.

I know exactly what's bothering her. "You're asking yourself why I'm not in the picture much."

She closes her eyes and frowns. I can see how digging out the memories deep down from her conscience is a physical exertion.

"I have recollections of us at Lamaze class, but not when I told you I was pregnant. I see you talking to the pediatric nurse at the hospital, but not beside me when I gave birth. Actually, I don't have any recollections of the delivery room whatsoever, but I just know you weren't there. I see you holding him between us and kissing me, I see you humming a lullaby to him, I see myself feeding him in his high chair or pushing him through the park in his stroller. There are images of him at an age he's able to hold his head up, to sit, to crawl, but there are none with him being old enough to speak his first words or take his first steps. I've never heard him call me mommy, have I?"

A tear emerges from her closed eyes. I'm transfixed by the wet path the drop takes down her cheek until it comes to a halt on her upper lip, followed by another one which makes its way much quicker for it's bigger and guided by the trail the first has left behind. She catches both tears which have formed one big drop close to her mole with her lower lip and sniffs. Eventually, she opens her eyes and with a gaze so pure she asks me, her voice barely above a whisper, "how have we been able to survive this, Mulder?"

Seeing her having understood everything, seeing her getting the whole picture of our short, painful parenthood, even if some details are still missing, tears me apart. My own hurt, which I'm able to lock up more often than I'm not, is pushing itself forward with a vengeance and I feel tears filling my own eyes. I have no words to say to her. She's asked the right question, but I don't have an answer for her other than that we haven't done so much more than keeping up our vitally important body functions. We have survived the loss of our child, yes, we have stayed alive, but we haven't been able to get over it. Not in the least. And we never will.

"We had each other, Scully," I say. "We depended on the other to give our lives a meaning. And it worked. They way we loved each other helped us to cope with the pain. We learned how to be happy without him. There were days we failed miserably, but more days we managed to be grateful for having us, and we enjoyed being together. I guess we got married to make exactly that statement, that we'd decided to pull through this together, to not let fate beat us."

"Sounds like a pretty symbiotic relationship," she says, her eyes scrutinizing my face.

I give a gentle chuckle. "It was symbiotic from the moment we met, Scully. I'm dependent on you in every respect. You're my elixir of life."

I hope I'm not overwhelming her with my confession, but I've always been the more feeble one in our relationship, always more dependent on her than she was on me.

She cups my face with her hands, locking eyes. Her thumbs stroke my cheeks tenderly and I see so much compassion in her face, I fear I'm going to drown in it.

"It must have been very difficult for you when I was gone."

"Difficult?" I chuckle again, but this time it sounds bitter. "Yeah, difficult would be an appropriate word."

I almost ceased to exist. Getting up in the morning, facing another day without knowing her whereabouts or condition, was an energy-sapping exertion. I felt so lost in my world. Deserted and alone, like a toddler in a supermarket who doesn't know which aisle their mother has vanished into. The boundless fear that she was abused or tormented somewhere by this freak made me picture the worst scenarios my profiler's mind was able to come up with. It was like hell on earth.

So, yes, I definitely had a difficult time.

I believe she's divined my thoughts, at least some of them, because she rests her forehead against mine and I feel her soft breath on my face. It's such an intimate posture. At the time we still held on to the platonic nature of our partnership so eagerly, putting our foreheads together had been the most intimate way we allowed ourselves to touch each other.

"Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry," she whispers. She presses a kiss to my forehead before she pulls me into an embrace.

I rest my head against her chest and let her stroke my hair. The regular beating of her heart soothes me.

"I'm back," she reassures me, "maybe not completely yet, but I won't go anywhere, ever."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

Pete Randall, the detective in charge of the case which had gotten us into this mess, has just called, and I'm still shaking because of the information he gave me. When Scully enters the living room I'm still staring at the phone in my hand. She takes it from me and puts it on the coffee table.

"Who was that on the phone? You look a bit tense, Mulder."

"That was, uh, Detective Randall. You know, the one who's been assigned to the case of the serial killer who..." I can't finish the sentence, my feelings about this whole case are still too raw.

Scully, on the other hand, is disturbingly unfazed and completes my sentence without hesitation, "...abducted me."

"Right."

"What did he want?"

If I could only keep her away from what he wanted. I'm afraid it is going to heighten her trauma again. We've settled into a lovely rhythm by now, living almost like any other couple. Almost, as she's still suffering from memory gaps. Some of them smaller, some huge. Some of minor importance, some essential. But still, I could go on like this, and I'm not sure that what Detective Randall asked her to do won't throw us back to where we started.

"Any progress with the case?"

"Well...yes," I admit somewhat reluctantly.

"That's great," she exclaims happily, her joyful demeanor cooling down when I'm not joining in. "Is it not?" she asks, apparently confused.

"I guess it is."

"You guess?"

I avoid looking at her and play with the remote control I'm holding in my hand to keep my fingers occupied. I was watching TV when the phone rang and put it on mute before I answered it.

She places herself next to me on the couch, takes the remote from me and puts her hand on my forearm. "Mulder, what's wrong?"

"They caught the guy."

"And that isn't good?"

"It is," I say.

"Then I don't understand why you are so unemotional about it."

I turn to her and take her hands in mine. Drawing little circles on their backs with my thumbs I let her know what's bothering me, and, actually, I'm very emotional about it. Emotional and deeply convinced that this is a very bad idea.

"Detective Randall wants you to come in for a lineup. You're...uhm, you're the only surviving victim."

She yanks her hands out of my grip, she's obviously not so unfazed about it after all. She kneads her fingers so hard I hear them creak. "Randall is sure it's him?"

"Yes. He finally made a mistake and left his DNA on his latest victim. They ran it through the database and had a match. His name is Stud Herman. He's been on the records for sexual molestation since his early twenties but has never been accused of a major crime. They're still trying to figure out when he went from molesting to killing."

"There's been another victim?" she asks, stretching herself to appear demure.

I don't want to upset her, and this is going to upset her, but I also know she won't let go until I give her all the information I have. "Yes, a 56-year-old woman from Arlington. Unremarkable housewife, slightly overweight, brunette." I hesitate before I add, "his usual type of prey."

Her face crumbles to pieces. "I was lucky," she whispers in a feeble voice.

I can't whole-heartedly agree. She was taken by a serial killer, locked up against her will for months, something was done to her to make her lose her memory, and eventually, she was abandoned in the cold. He wanted her to die in that parking lot, he simply didn't know what a tenacious woman she was. She wasn't lucky, she's his victim like all the others.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to."

Without looking up she says, "No, I owe it to the other women who weren't lucky enough to be redheads, and to those who might become his victims if we let him waltz out of this. But what if I don't recognize him? What if he is in the lineup and I can't tell? I would be serving him a free ticket out of jail."

"They have his DNA, Scully," I remind her to take some of the pressure off, "that's credible evidence."

I know as much as she does that if Herman was identified in a lineup by a former Special Agent with the FBI it would be much more than just credible evidence, it would be a lottery ticket for the district attorney. So, yes, she will be under pressure, and that's exactly why I loathe the idea of her doing this.

"When does Randall want me to come in?"

"As soon as possible."

"Okay," she gets up from the couch in a swift move, "let me take a quick shower and get changed, then we'll go."

* * *

Her 'quick' shower lasted more than half an hour, a clear sign she's not really ready to do it. But Scully wouldn't be Scully if she'd let herself be ruled by concerns for her personal well-being, so I drove her into the city for her to face her tormentor. When I opened the door to the precinct and made her pass through it in front of me, I couldn't keep myself from putting my hand at the small of her back. It's a reflex I've cultivated years ago, rooted deeply in my desire to protect her, wanting her to know I'm right behind her covering her back.

I spot Detective Randall at his desk, a phone at his ear.

We know each other since we met at Violent Crimes, both of us rookies on their first assignments after having left the Academy. For the time we worked together, we'd established something similar to a friendship. We went for an after-work beer now and then or met in the park on a Sunday to shoot hoops. I even attended his wedding. He's one of the many people I missed staying in touch with after I'd started drowning myself in the X-Files.

"Gotta go," he shouts into the mouthpiece when he sees us and throws the receiver onto the cradle. He jumps out of his chair and waves at us. "Mulder, my friend, over here!"

I wave back, we close the gap between us and pull each other in a short hug. When we break apart, he turns to Scully.

"Dana, so good to see you again. Thanks for coming and doing this." He takes Scully's hand compassionately in both of his and squeezes it gently.

Pete visited us a few times after I brought her home. Initially, he came to get a testimony from Scully, but a witness with amnesia isn't a reliable source of information, so he quickly put his legal pad aside and just came for coffee from then on. He's was truly moved by what had happened to Scully and wanted to stay in the loop about how we were doing. It's quite a ride to our house from the city, so his visits became less frequent, but he'd call me every other week just to check on us. Only that I never told Scully to avoid having to talk to her about the non-existent developments in the case; non-existent until today.

"I hear your recovery is progressing slowly but that you are getting better. I can't tell you how happy I am for you and this dude here," he puts his hand on my shoulder, "I've never seen him so broken and unable to function like during your abduction. Let me introduce you to Officer Jensen. He'll conduct the lineup."

"I thought you were going to do it, Pete," I say, not hiding my surprise.

"I'm sorry, guys, I can't. I have to get my butt to court for a testimony." He glances at his watch. "Oooh, I'm late already. Jenson is a good officer. Young, but very zealous." He looks around the precinct while he's grabbing his jacket and slipping it on. Finally, his eyes lighten up and he yells through the room, beckoning a young man over, "Jensen!" When said Jenson joins us, he introduces us. "This is my old friend Fox Mulder. We met at the Academy. And this is his wife who came here to identify Stud Herman. I've got to testify in the Sanders trial in...twenty minutes, so I want you to take care of the lineup."

"Alright, Sir," the young man answers in a very obedient manner, only short of clicking his heels, so it seems. I'm not sure I want us to be taken care of by this guy. He's a baby, who looks like he left the Academy last week. I doubt he's qualified to handle the situation. The lineup in itself will be stressful enough for Scully, I don't want her to be exposed to any more discomfort than absolutely necessary because of an inexperienced police officer being in charge.

Unperturbed by my grim look, Pete pats me on the shoulder again and throws Scully a friendly look. "See ya, I've gotta run!" he says, and off he is.

I'm a bit perplexed about his sudden and unexpected exit, moreover, not very pleased. But now that we're here, it wouldn't make any sense to schedule a new appointment and leave. It would stress Scully even more. So I look at Officer Jensen, waiting for him to say something, but all he's doing is smile stupidly at us.

Eventually, I prompt impatiently, "Officer?" and Jensen clears his throat. "Uh, yes, this way, please."

He turns his back to us and walks away. Scully and I look at each other and shrug. "We may as well expect the worst," I mumble under my breath when I nudge her to follow him, and Scully chuckles. When we're past the door to the lineup room, at the transparent side of a one-way mirror, Officer Jensen turns around abruptly and we almost run into him.

"Let me explain the procedure to you, Ma'am," he says.

 _I beg your pardon?_

"It's _Agent_ , Officer, not Ma'am," I hiss, and our baby officer instantly blushes. "My wife is a Special Agent with the FBI and I demand you address her according to her rank."

"Mulder," Scully mollifies me. Looking at Officer Jensen and smiling at him - smiling? - she says, "I'm not with the FBI anymore, so my last name will be just fine."

"Okay, Mrs. Mulder, then let's-"

I think I'm boiling over.

" _Scully_ , you moron!" I shout. "It's Doctor Scully! Not Ma'am, not Mrs. Mulder, but Doctor Scully! Are you even familiar with the facts of this case?"

"Ugh, yes, Sir, I am. I've been on the squad since day one," he hurries to explain.

"Fine! In this case, you should know that the full name of my wife, _former_ ," I smirk at Scully, "FBI Agent, is Doctor Dana Katherine Scully. She'd been held captive by your suspect before he abandoned her in a parking lot at night. She survived, albeit with memory gaps, but she agreed to do this lineup regardless of her poor health to help you throw this killer into prison. So, _Officer_ Jensen, would you please have the decency to treat your witness with the respect she deserves?"

"Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir! I'm terribly sorry, Doctor Scully," Officer Jensen says toward Scully, and I can tell he really is sorry. Drops of sweat appear on his forehead and I bet he curses his detective for having left him here with us. So do I, actually.

"It's alright, Officer," Scully says and I can't believe how calm she is. Isn't this clown of a police officer driving her crazy like he is driving me crazy?

"Uhm, okay. Well, then, Doctor Scully, the suspect along with other men of similar height, build, and complexion will line up behind this one-way mirror to allow you to remain anonymous and-"

I groan. What the hell is he doing? Is he really explaining the setup of a police lineup to an FBI agent? _Former_ FBI agent. I groan again.

Former FBI agent, it almost makes me laugh. Has she forgotten that she'd been helping me with getting Herman's profile done? That she'd given me the decisive hint to fully understand him? Making herself a target along with it? She might not be on the FBI's payroll anymore, but she helped to solve this case and is paying bitterly for it.

Scully must realize my growing impatience because before my stirred emotions get the better of me, she intervenes. "Yes, I am familiar with the procedure, Officer Jensen, thank you."

"Ah, yes. Of course, of course," the idiot stammers.

I dismissively click my tongue, loud enough for him to hear.

Scully pulls me away and whispers, "Mulder, would you mind waiting outside?"

"What?"

She wants me to leave?

"I think it's better if Jensen and I do this alone."

"Seriously? You want me to leave you alone with this newbie? He doesn't know what he's doing, Scully."

"Probably, but _I_ know what I'm doing, Mulder. You've got to stop believing I can't take care of myself. I'm not-"

"-a tiny, brittle woman who needs me as her protector, I know." Her look tells me she's not convinced, so I say it again, a bit more emphatically, "I know!"

"What's keeping you in here then?"

"Scully, I-"

"No, Mulder! I'm asking you to trust me. I can do this alone."

I stare at her for a moment, speechless. I see the determination in her eyes. She's made up her mind and there's nothing more for me to say, so I leave the room accepting her wish, albeit not happy about it. Anyhow, I'll be only a few feet away, able intervene any second if I have to. I'd kick in that door if necessary. Wouldn't be the first time I kicked in a door she was behind.

When said door has been shut in front of my eyes, I take a seat at one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs which are to be found all over the place in this precinct. My left leg is bobbing frantically, but it's not enough to vent my nervousness, so after a few minutes I jump up and start pacing the hallway. When I pass the lineup room, I put my ear to the door and try to eavesdrop. I don't mind the depreciating stare of a female officer walking by.

 _Why are you staring at me like this? My wonderfully strong and courageous Scully's in there, eye to eye with her tormentor, protected only by a thin pane of glass and a baby officer who probably doesn't know how to hold a gun._

I know Herman can't see her, can't lay his dirty hands on her, but still, he's going to make an impact on her, once again, and I hate him for it. Jesus, I can't believe I'm letting this happen.

I know exactly what's going on at the other side of the gray door I'm staring at. Six men are lining up in front of a wall with markings to aid identifying their height. For the lineup to be admissible as evidence in court, it must be conducted fairly. The police officer present, the Magnificent Jensen in our case, mustn't say or do anything that persuades the witness to identify the suspect that they prefer. If he blows it, if Jensen allows himself the tiniest mistake and therefore renders the lineup useless in court, I swear to God, I'll have him expelled from police service.

When I'm at the end of the hallway during one of my frantic passages, the door opens and Jensen and Scully step outside, talking silently to each other.

Wait a minute! Does he have his hand at the small of her back?

 _Hey, you feeb, that's where my hand's supposed to be, not yours! Take it off!_

When he sees me and my somewhat angry face I suppose, he backs away from her and puts the hand out which only seconds ago has invaded the space that belongs to me, and my pulse slows down a bit.

Good God, since when am I so pathetically territorial?

"Thank you very much, Doctor Scully," he says while shaking her hand.

At least, he's minding his manners now.

"You're welcome," Scully says in return, smiling kindly at him.

"I'll let you know when there are any developments."

"I'd appreciate that, Officer Jensen. Thank you."

With this, they part. Scully turns toward me, Officer Jensen only nods shortly in my direction and walks the other way. He's obviously not very keen on talking to me anymore. I don't blame him.

Scully's demeanor is not giving away any clue about what had been going on in that room. Her shoulders are straightened, her chin is up, her strides are extensive and powerful. This definitely isn't a brittle woman closing the gap between us.

I'm rooted to the spot because I'm not sure what to expect from her after my silly alpha-male behavior earlier. Still, when she's right in front of me, my injured pride makes me ask, "why did you send me out of the room? I came here to back you up, Scully, not merely as your driver."

"I know, but I had to send you out. I was afraid you'd jump right through the mirror and strangle Herman the second I identified him."

"I would never do such a crazy thing!" I pout.

Okay, I might.

She grins, her eyes revealing she doesn't believe me either but they also show a hint of gratitude.

"So? How did it go in there?"

"Good."

"Was he...? I mean, did you...?"

"Yes, he was, and yes, I did." When I look at her clearly indicating I'm waiting for more than this, she adds, "he was number four."

"You recognized him." She may consider this both as a statement or as a question, depending on whether she's willing to tell me more of what happened in there.

She takes a long, deep breath and keeps the air inside her lungs for a moment before emitting it noisily. "Yes. I instantly recognized him. Jensen made them say a few words, but I didn't need to hear his voice. His face was enough. His eyes...so cold and malicious." She shudders briefly, then quickly recomposes herself. "His whole demeanor radiates malice and cruelty. He's a mean person through and through. I'm so glad they got him. I will have to testify in court when they put him on trial."

"Of course," I say and just hope I will be able to control my temper when Herman's attorney cross-examines her.

On the outside, she seems to be doing okay. She's composed and calm, her facial expression is relaxed, her eyes crystal clear. But I know her. I've seen her putting this wall around her a million times before, and I am the only person save her mother who is able to look behind this facade. Over the years, I've acquired ample skills to read Scully's demeanor and I know exactly that the lineup hasn't left her cold like she wants to make me believe.

Although I don't really expect an honest answer, I ask, "are you alright, Scully?"

"I'm fine, Mulder, just take me home."

And my worst fears are proven to be true.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII**

She's weirdly withdrawn on our way home. Something's not right. She's been staring through the window without blinking for most of our trip and hasn't said a word since we left the precinct. My eyes shoot back and forth between her and the road in front of us. Her hands are clenched into fists on her lap. When I cover them with mine I almost flinch because they're cold as ice. I shortly direct my eyes back to the road ahead of us to make sure we're not drifting off before I look at her again. Her breathing has become rapid and shallow, she's almost hyperventilating I'd say, being the medical layman I am. I've never seen her like this.

"What's the matter, Scully?"

"I...I don't know," she answers feebly. "My heart's racing and my fingers are tingling."

One quick, hasty glance onto the road, then my eyes are fixed to her again. Her face is so pale. What is going on here?

"Five more minutes, Scully, then we're home," I tell her when I turn off the main road. I stop the car in front of the fence to our property. I observe her through the windshield while I operate the heavy metal gate. Within the few seconds it took me to exit the car and open it, her condition has become even worse. I realize that her hands are now pressed to her chest and I literally jump back into the car.

"Scully," I scream frantically, "what's wrong with you?"

"My chest. It aches."

"Are...are you having a heart attack?"

"No, I don't think so," she croaks, "this is something else, but I don't know what." She fusses with her blouse and more or less rips it open, I see at least one button flying through the air. "I'm so hot!"

Hot? Her hands were freezing cold just a few moments ago. I'm getting really scared now. What if this is a heart attack after all? We're miles away from the next doctor, and it takes an ambulance at least 30 minutes to get here. If she passes out, I'll be on my own.

I floor the gas pedal. Scully groans when the car lifts off a ground wave and hits the road hard again. I've never made it this fast from the gate to the house, I didn't even bother to close it behind us, which has never happened before.

I kill the engine, jump out of the car and open the passenger door.

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

She offers me her hand and I pull her out of the car.

"The fresh air will do you good, Scully. Take a deep breath."

She leans her whole body against the car and closes her eyes, making no move to head for the porch.

"Do you want me to carry you?"

"Don't be silly, Mulder," she retorts, albeit with less insistence than I'm used to, "I'm fully capable of walking these few steps."

I'm glad to notice that she's still herself, although I'm not really convinced she's not overestimating her strength. I walk right next to her, ready to intervene and catch her any second. She's unsteady but determined to make it to the front door on her own feet. I miss to get the key into the lock twice before I manage to snap it open, then I push the door so hard, it crashes against the wall inside.

I walk over to the couch and brush the pillows away to make room for her to lie down. "Get over here, Scully," I urge her. When she's not coming, I look up and realize she's still standing on the porch, holding on fiercely to the banister.

"I'm so dizzy all of a sudden. I think I'm gonna faint," she whispers hardly audible.

I fly over to her and sweep her off her feet. So, I'm carrying my wife over the threshold a second time in a few months, but, honestly, in my imagination, I'd pictured it much more romantic, both times.

I lower her gently down on the couch and put a cushion under her head.

"No," she pants, "under my legs. The blood needs to flow back."

I do as I'm told and kneel beside her head. A few strands of hair cling to her clammy face and I brush them away. Drops of cold sweat appear on her forehead and her breathing becomes shallow and quick again.

"Scully, try to breathe in as slowly and deeply as you can. Through your nose. Come on, with me. In..." she follows my instruction, "and out through your mouth."

The air leaves her lungs, still too fast, but a bit more controlled than before. I continue to coach her through the exercise, "in...one-two-three-four-five. And out...one-two-three-four-five. Focus on your breathing, Scully. You can do it."

It takes a few minutes and several rounds of breathing in and out, but eventually, she seems to get better. She opens her eyes, and the look in them is not as frantic and terrified anymore.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Slightly."

"Tell me what I can do to help you."

"Something cold would be nice."

"No problem, hold on a second."

I rush over to the kitchen and soak one of the towels in cold water. When I return, I dab her forehead and temples.

"Aah, that's good, Mulder."

She takes the cloth from me and puts it to her throat and cleavage. She exhales heavily and in phases through her open mouth, still working hard to get her breathing under control. The worst anxiety seems to be gone but her movements are still agitated. Her legs are shaking and her eyes flicker restlessly.

"Shhh, Scully, you're doing good. Just keep breathing. I'm here, you're not alone."

I try to be reassuring and firm. I resume my kneeling position and stroke her hair. I feel her lean into my hand when I caress her cheek, so I dare expand my ministrations. I put one hand on her lower arm and the other on her thigh which is still twitching. I feel the muscles spasm even through her pants.

Slowly, very slowly, the symptoms of whatever that has been are on the wane. Her limbs stop trembling, her breathing returns to a normal rhythm, her eyes aren't empty anymore but focus on me. She shakes her head in disbelief. "That was so unreal, Mulder, like I was watching myself from a distance. I felt completely disconnected from myself and there was nothing I could do against it."

"What was this? I've never seen you like this, Scully."

I've seen her dying of cancer, shot, almost frozen to death, in a coma, but never in a tailspin like this.

"It might have been a panic attack," she diagnoses herself.

"A panic attack?"

Scully in a state of panic? The concept sounds odd to me, Scully never panics. She's daring and bold, methodical and poised. How often has she stood her ground in a hairy situation? I've never seen her paralyzed by fear.

"Episodes of panic attacks can occur at any time, even during sleep. There is every indication that it was a panic attack, the dizziness, breathing difficulties, hot flashes, chest pains, the sense of terror and loss of control."

"The lineup triggered it, didn't it? I should've never allowed it," I berate myself. "You weren't stable enough to go through a mental strain like that."

"Mulder," she cups my cheek, "I had to do it. I was in law enforcement for too long to let the chance slip away to pin down a murderer."

I kiss her forehead. "You can be proud of yourself. Thanks to you, that son of a bitch will be put on trial and hopefully rot in hell afterward."

She smiles weakly. He hand falls back on her chest, powerless. "I feel so worn out."

I remove the cushions from under her legs and put one under her head before I spread a blanket over her body.

"Close your eyes, Scully, and have some sleep. I'll watch out for you."

"Thank you," she murmurs, and already succumbing to sleep, she adds, "love you."

She must be really exhausted because now that the panic has subsided she drifts off quickly and I'm glad for the soothing and healing effect sleep will have on her. Her last words make me feel warm all over, though. She loves me.

I lift her head and slip myself under it, pulling it into my lap. I look at her face. Her delicate features have finally relaxed, the sharp line between her eyebrows is gone and her forehead is smooth again. Her jaws have slackened off, her lips aren't pressed together anymore but are slightly parted. Her lower lip is a bit swollen. She must've bitten it hard, there's some dried blood. She rests peacefully now, her eyes absolutely still under the lids. No fluttering, no twitching, no shaking anywhere in her body. Sleeping beauty right here in my lap.

It's like the quiet after the storm. My own body has been flooded with adrenaline I'm only slowly getting rid of. I feel my pulse going back to normal and my breathing mirroring her calm rhythm.

After a while, my thoughts start wandering. I recap today's events which have led us to this very moment. What does it mean for us that her ordeal has come back to Scully? Is it another step forward or will it throw her back again? The traumatic memories coming with it have the potential to further solidify the amnesia, although we still don't know what exactly had caused it in the first place.

My mind wouldn't stop at Pete calling me this morning, it pulls me further back in time. Moments are popping up in my head I haven't thought of in years. Like when this creepy writer, my short-term neighbor at my Alexandria apartment, told me Scully couldn't fall in love because she already was in love. To this day I can't believe how dim I was, asking myself who that lucky guy might be. Or when she threw me that look across the dance floor at the high school reunion of that unfortunate weather announcer, the one who created thunderstorms whenever someone hit on his secret love. That look of hers, that smile! Boy, at that moment, all I wished was that this was our high school reunion and she was my prom date.

I close my eyes and another situation creeps back to me. I'm beamed back to when I was strapped to a hospital bed, considered to be a danger to everyone who came near me. I remember feeling so helpless, defenseless against the accelerated brain activity I was suffering from that would eventually kill me. When I heard her voice outside in the hallway, demanding to see me, letting nothing and nobody keep her from checking up on me, immense relief flooded my entire body because I knew she'd get me out of this. For the umpteenth time, I was immensely grateful to have her in my life. 'I'm his doctor,' she said but she was actually my guardian angel, my savior.

Why am I walking down memory lane like this? How come these long-forgotten incidents are pushing themselves to the forefront just now? To remind me how precious they are? To rub my nose into how big of a loss it is to lack them? You can't miss what you don't know, right? There are a lot of memories I could do without, though. Me holding Scully at gunpoint, for example. Me treating her like shit after I'd woken up from the dead also falls into this category as is saying goodbye to William and her.

 _Stop it, Mulder! Stop making this about you!_

I glance at the grandfather clock on the mantlepiece and can hardly believe two hours have gone by. No wonder my legs have fallen asleep, making themselves felt with a tingling sensation. I can no longer sit still, I have to move.

I cautiously slip my legs out from under her head and replace them with a thick cushion. She stirs a little, a silent moan escapes her chest, but fortunately, sleep is holding her firmly in its grip. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I had woken her up. What're two tingling legs compared to the aftermaths of a severe panic attack? But her chest is rising and falling in a steady, slow rhythm and she looks relaxed and peaceful. I might as well leave her alone for a moment and run some errands. She deserves to be spoiled tonight with a home cooked meal and some Häagen Dasz.

In the following one-and-a-half hours, I break the second record today: I've never rushed through the grocery store at a lightspeed like this, pulling items randomly out of the shelves and throwing them into my cart passing by. I line-jump at the cashier, yelling at the customers in the queue and flashing my badge. I burn home on autopilot mode and curse the squeaking sound I elicit when I open the front door. My heart beat stops for a moment when I find her sitting upright on the couch.

Good grief, if she had another panic attack and I wasn't there. My insides convulse.

"Hey," I say gently not to startle her, putting the grocery bags on the floor.

She turns her head and...smiles. Thank God, she looks much better.

"Hey," she says back, sounding a bit groggy but collected.

I place myself next to her on the couch and examine her face for any remains of the terror that were there a few hours ago, and I'm relieved I'm not seeing any.

"Everything alright here?" I ask. "You were fast asleep when I left. I wasn't gone for much more than an hour."

"I'm fine."

When she realizes that this line is not particularly suited to calm me, she adds a reassuring, "really, Mulder, I'm okay."

"That was frightening, Scully. I thought you were having a heart attack."

"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to scare you. I've never had anything like it before." She looks at me and in her eyes I see some of the residues the experience left behind after all. "It felt like I was going crazy like I was losing my mind. I was scared too, Mulder, believe me."

"Yeah, I can imagine. I wonder what that asshole Herman did to you that seeing him upset you that much."

"Seeing him actually wasn't the problem. The attack would've struck me in the precinct if it was, but the pressure in my chest didn't start to establish itself until we were on the way home, when I was contemplating in the car."

"Contemplating? Contemplating what?"

"What he kept telling me."

What does she mean by that? Telling her what? And when? In what setting? If Jensen had left her alone with him...the thought alone lets my right hand clench into a fist.

"I don't understand, Scully. Do you mean what Officer Jensen told him to say in the lineup? He didn't let him talk to you one-to-one, did he?" I clench my fist so hard, my knuckles turn white.

She moves her body to sit opposite me, takes my fist in her hand and unfolds my fingers gently one after the other. "No, there was no direct contact with him." She talks to me without meeting my eyes, staring at our now entwined fingers. "And I didn't mean what he said in the lineup. That was just some meaningless sentence. I remembered what he said to me when he was holding me captive."

"You remember something from the time you were with him?" I'm just trying to make sure because her nod is hardly visible and she's still not looking at me. "But that's wonderful, Scully!" I shriek, struggling to keep my exhilaration at bay which threatens to go overboard despite her more than restrained reaction.

"Wonderful? Well," she pauses for a moment and licks her lips before the continues, "he said that you were next door, that you were his captive just like I was, and that he was doing terrible things to you. It was horrible, Mulder."

"You believed him?"

"Not at the beginning, no, but when you're told day after day after day that the most dreadful things are done to the person you love more than anyone, eventually, the day comes you start asking yourself 'What if he's telling the truth?' I couldn't fight the pictures of you next door, Mulder. Beaten up. With broken fingers, pulled toenails, cigarette burns. Not allowed to eat and drink properly, let alone sleep. Being told I was raped, which I wasn't. It was killing me. It was so demoralizing and grueling that from a certain point onward, I couldn't ignore his stories anymore. They became a reality, and every day, I died a little more fearing for you, believing you were in so much agony."

I'm in a state of agony now, listening to her.

"One day, he showed up with a syringe in his hand, telling me he was going to launch the ultimate strike. I didn't realize it was meant for me until I felt the needle penetrate my skin. I remember the burning sensation," she strokes up and down her left upper arm, "and then everything went black." She buries her face in her hands. "Oh my God, Mulder, he injected me with something, a chemical substance, to make me lose my memory. Not to protect himself, to keep me from testifying against him, but to hit you."

"He wanted to take you away from me. He knew it would hit me harder than my own death. He was sick enough to be incapable of killing a woman who didn't correspond to his usual pattern, so he left her out in the cold to freeze to death. And just to make sure in case that wouldn't happen, that pervert filled her up with a drug of some sort to make her forget who she was in love with. That is so unbelievably insidious and heinous, it makes me nauseous."

"He reached his goal," she reminds me in a tearful voice, "you were hit."

"This is not about what he did to me, Scully, this is only about what he did to you. I'm being honest when I say I obtain satisfaction from the fact that he must know it was you who identified him today. He couldn't see you through the one-way mirror but he knew exactly who was standing on the other side of it, pointing her finger at him. He knew he killed all his victims but one."

I can't sit still anymore. To channel my inner unrest I get up and get a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen. On my way back to the couch, something else comes to mind.

"You have to talk to your therapist and tell her about the lineup and the panic attack. Maybe, we should've asked her whether you were in a condition to face him before agreeing to do it."

I hand her the glass. She takes a sip, passes it back to me, then folds her hands on her lap.

"There's something else I have to tell her," she says somewhat withdrawn.

Oh?

I look at her expectantly, but no words are coming out of her mouth. Will this be a recurring pattern from now on that she implies something, but denies any further explanation?

"Which. Is. What?" I cringe at how impatient I sound.

"Seeing him today has initiated the recollection of the time he had me under his control, that's how I was able to identify him. The panic attack, however, seems to have loosened some kind of major block in my brain."

Okay, and that means...?

 _Talk to me, Scully!_

If she doesn't start talking now, I'm going to strangle her. My pulse has skyrocketed and both my legs are bobbing in a nervous staccato. I take it she needs time to process all of this herself, to put it in perspective, to evaluate the circumstances, but I'd really and truly appreciate if she let me into her world of thought.

"What block, Scully?"

I've scraped together as much of emotional control as possible not to scream at her. My composure is about to shatter into pieces any second. And then, just when I'm on the brink of letting my frustration erupt from my body, she whispers, "the block that locked up my memory."

"The block...that locked up...your memory," I repeat stupidly.

"You understand what I'm trying to say, Mulder?"

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_

"No, Scully, actually, what you've been throwing me here are nothing but stripped bones. Am I supposed to read your mind? I know I was once quite skilled in doing that, but lately, I have no idea what's going on in your head."

Tears are brimming in her eyes.

Shit, I made her cry! I'm such an asshole drowning in my own self-pity!

"No, don't cry please," I try to soothe her. I stroke her cheeks and the tears begin to fall, leaving wet streaks on her skin. She starts sobbing violently and doesn't even try to control her emotions, which seen individually is so unlike her. I haven't seen her cry this hard very often, if ever.

"Dana, I'm-"

"It's okay, Mulder," she hiccups breathlessly, "these are happy tears."

"Happy?"

"My memory...it's back. That's what I've been trying to tell you."

I don't know what to say. She wouldn't make a joke about it, would she? The matter's too serious for a joke. Did she have to go through the hell of a panic attack to get her memories back? Would that be like a positive side-effect of the ordeal, because it was an ordeal, for her as well as for me.

"Don't you believe me? I'm not joking."

Apparently, my having difficulties reading her mind doesn't mean she's not fully capable of reading mine.

"When I woke up, I felt so strange. My mind was in an uproar, I couldn't control my thoughts. They were wandering around and I couldn't tell them to stop. I was flooded with images and I just couldn't stop it. Like when you put too much corn into the popcorn maker and the popcorn keeps popping out although you've switched it off already."

"Salted, I hope." One look into her face tells me that she doesn't appreciate being interrupted, especially not by a joke that lame. "Sorry. That's...good, isn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, it is! I was trying to make sense of it while you were away and it took me a while until I realized that those weren't random images my brain produced as a result of the panic attack but...memories. Real memories."

Her eyes are watery but also beaming in a way. She takes them off of me and directs them past me to a point somewhere outside in the distance. Her vision seems to go slightly out of focus so that I doubt she's actually looking at something. I can literally see the flurry behind her forehead, the energy of synapses reconnecting and nerve pathways passing on information. The corners of her mouth rise into a small lovely smile and her eyes are filling with more tears. I can only speculate what kind of images are pushing themselves forward just now.

"William," she sobs eventually, confirming my hunch.

I close my eyes and heave a heavy sigh. Memories of William. Of course. What else?

"No, it's okay, Mulder." She looks at me with clear but watery eyes. "I'd forgotten my baby," she hiccups and takes my breath away with it, "and I have him back now. I no longer have only two-dimensional images of him, stories you told me or the eight photographs we have of him, but my own personal memories of how it felt to hold him. What it was like to nurse him. How he smelt. What his laugh sounded like."

Wow!

"I knew you were kissing me when we brought him home. Knowing is a cognizant act, Mulder, something you do with your brain. But now I remember how sweet that kiss tasted, how happy we were. As a family. How elated I was at that particular moment. That's feeling, Mulder, and it has nothing to with the brain but only with the soul and the heart. "

"We were very happy, Scully, but we weren't granted to be a family for long," I state flatly, unable to share her elation.

"I know. After that, there was mainly pain. But...wasn't it worth it, Mulder?"

I don't know what she means, and I guess my face is showing my bewilderment because she goes on explaining. "My memories were erased and gone. They were lost to me, the good ones as well as the bad ones. The bad ones only feel so bad because of the good ones. You can only lose something you once had. Would you have rather relinquished having him to spare you the pain losing him has forced on you? Because that's exactly what happened to me, Mulder. I'd forgotten I ever had a son and with it the pain associated with his adoption was also gone, and you probably thought this was a good thing,"

She knows me so well.

"but I'd also forgotten how happy I was as a mother. His mother."

Her facial expression changes all of a sudden. I take it another memory is fighting its way back into her consciousness, and I just hope it's not what I believe it is. But then she puts her hands to her mouth and a silent cry slips out of her throat, and I'm pretty sure it's exactly what I've feared.

"Emily," she whispers.

I groan inwardly. How many good emotions can be related to that little girl? If any at all?

"I had a daughter!"

She stares at me, her eyes full of cognizance, but also full of questions, one of which she poses right away. "Why have you never told me anything about her?"

"Because it's a sad story through and through, Scully. Actually in a way even sadder than William's. You didn't know she was your daughter until she was terminally ill, and there was nothing you could do to save her. They wouldn't even let you adopt her, although she was orphaned and you were her biological mother. All you were allowed to do was witness her suffering. She died in your arms only shortly after you found out who she was."

The usually fine lines between her brows are deep and prominent now. I can only imagine how hard it is to recollect your past piece by piece as if you were putting together a million-pieces puzzle.

"She was created with my ova, right? I think I'm getting it. That X-File you made me read about my abduction..." Her hands go to her temples, wedging her head between her palms as though to keep the memories inside which threaten to disappear again. "They not only gave me cancer, they also harvested my ova. That was how I ended up barren, that was no ordinary Premature Ovarian Failure. And that's why we tried IVF and why William's conception was so unexpected. We didn't use protection because we thought I couldn't get pregnant, right? Having been conceived naturally by a barren woman, that's what made him a miracle, isn't it?" She drops her hands and lays her eyes on mine again, pleading with me, "you weren't lying to me when you told me we made him the old-fashioned way, right?"

Her troubled expression lets my heart freeze.

"No, I didn't lie to you. William was a child of our love."

"And Emily?"

"You got it all right, Scully. She was your biological daughter, but you didn't give birth to her. She was part of that sick plan you and I had been drawn into with the X-Files. It was something I thought I could protect you from after your amnesia. When I wasn't telling you the full truth about things, it was only to spare you what had already hurt you once. I didn't see any need to let it hurt you again."

She cups my face, and I gladly notice that her hands are still and warm. "I know, Mulder, and I love you for it. But you know what? I can't have only the good memories back, it's either all or nothing. I remember you beside me at Emily's service, and that's a good memory. I recall having a beautiful daughter, and I remember having a miraculous son. My life was blessed with two children, and although they're both not with me anymore, I still am a mother. And that's a wonderful feeling."

"So wonderful it makes you cry," I say, brushing a tear off her cheek. "Don't tell me these are happy tears."

"No, they're not. I am sad...but now I know what to mourn. Before there was just a black void, a huge nothingness I couldn't relate to. I felt the pain, and the grief, and a lot of anger inside me, but I didn't know why I was feeling this way. I'm so grateful for having my life back, with all its highs and lows. Herman took my life away with inflicting the amnesia on me, but somehow, he also gave it back to me today."

"With making you go through a panic attack? That's a weird way of seeing it."

If I ever had the chance, I'd beat the living daylights out of that sick son of a bitch.

She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them tenderly. "He's not important anymore. It's only us I care about. Promise me to leave him alone, Mulder."

She knows me so well.

"Promise!" she insists. "I don't want to see you thrown into prison for violent assault of a detainee. He's not worth it."

"Scout's honor," I say with my right hand up, and although there might come a moment where keeping my promise will be difficult, I mean it from the bottom of my heart. The last thing I want for her is to fear for me. I don't want her to fear for anything or anyone ever again.

"Thank you," she says, before she settles herself in my embrace, her cheek on my chest and her arms around my waist.

I engage her into a fierce hug, pulling her so close I'm almost afraid to suffocate her, but she doesn't complain. Her body melts into mine and I hear her sigh into my chest.

"I remember everything, Mulder," she whispers, and with a bit more emphasis, she repeats, " _everything_."

Her voice is a whisper, trembling with excitement, but smooth as velvet. She pulls away and her gaze wanders to a point behind me again as if there was a screen where the images of her life were popping up on for her to watch. The hint of a smile appears on her face.

"Your proposal," she gasps, "you proposed to me in a rental car, riding an endless highway through the Midwest." She releases a short chuckle shaking her head in consternation. "How apt!"

Her eyes meet mine again and I see amusement in hers.

"Yeah, well, that wasn't very romantic, I know. Unforgivable. You'd deserved two dozens of red roses and champagne with it, all I had to offer was stale coffee in a styrofoam cup and a Snickers bar. No flowers, not even buttercups."

"Don't be silly, it was perfect! It was so...so _us_ ," she giggles. "How you stepped on the brake once I'd said yes and jumped out of the car to shout it out to the desert for nobody to hear...that was romantic."

"You found that romantic?"

I remember exactly how I feared my chest might burst because the bliss within me expanded so rapidly. She'd said somewhat en passant 'yes, Mulder, I marry you' with her eyes glued to the straight road in front of us, and I had somehow been overcome with such an urging need to shout it out to the world that Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. and former Special Agent with the FBI, wanted for aiding and abetting a convicted murderer, had really and truly agreed to marry me.

"Yes, you were kinda cute in your boyish joy. Did you really think I'd say no?"

"Well, the first time I asked, you said I wasn't being very helpful."

Her eyes widen. She really does remember everything obviously, even the fleeting moment I popped the question completely out of the blue while she was consulting with me about a case over the phone. "You were really being serious that time you asked while I was on vacation in Maine? I thought my endless recital of the black arts had made you so dizzy that you didn't know what you were saying."

"I knew exactly what I was saying. And yes, you'd definitely made me dizzy. In the best sense of the word," I say with a grin.

"Jesus, Mulder, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Would you have said yes? Then? If my plea had been expressed less ambiguously?"

"Who knows," she replies in a tone that adds an unspoken 'probably', and butterflies are fluttering in my stomach.

I've asked myself many times what would've happened if we hadn't waited so long, clinging to a professional platonic partnership instead of confiding in each other and marrying years earlier. If we had quit the Bureau, leaving the darkness behind, would we be a typical American family now? Loving husband and wife with an adorable son? Did we ever have a real chance for a life like this?

"William wouldn't have been born out of wedlock," I hear myself say.

 _Fuck, Mulder, don't you have anything better to do than rubbing salt into this particular wound again?_

"I'm sorry, Scully, for coming back to him over and over."

"No, it's okay. Don't apologize for mentioning him. He's our son, our love child." She sighs. "God, Mulder, we haven't talked about him much, have we? I don't want to withhold his existence anymore, I want him to be a part of our lives. I want to feel free to think of him, speak of him. I want to imagine what he looks like, what his favorite sport is, how he'd react in a certain moment. What his life is like."

"You haven't been ready to contemplate any of these questions so far, Scully. We mainly avoided talking about him. We thought it was a way to rule the pain, to make it manageable."

"But it kept fighting back."

"It sure did. With a vengeance."

She acknowledges my last remark with a simple confirming hum, leaving us both staring silently at each other.

The feeling of loss has always been there, dragging the pain in its wake. It's like a tinnitus, an ongoing sound in my ear, keeping me from sleep at night, and it's feeding me mercilessly with the facts I'm fully aware of anyway: 'he's gone, he's someone else's son now, he will never get to know you.' I can only imagine what the voice inside Scully's ear is saying to her. I bet it's reproachful and unforgiving and assuring the cut in her heart never heals.

"How do you picture him, Mulder?"

I can't believe she's asking me this, and what dumbfounds me even more is that I don't see a Scully riven by grief and guilt in front of me but one with a dreamy gaze and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

What a heartwarming sight!

I let my mind travel to a possible image of my son. "He's a gangling 8-year-old who has lost all his baby fat due to extensive basketball practice. He's a Kicks fan, for sure." I hope he is. "He's got my height and your complexion, my obsession with things and your tenacity." A perfect combination of us both. "He drops his bike in the driveway, much to his father's chagrin, and always tries to weasel himself out of the household chores his mother tells him to get done. He loves pancakes soaked in maple syrup and pizza."

"With or without mushrooms," the mushroom lover in this house asks.

"I don't know. How much pizza with mushrooms did you have when you were pregnant? They say a mother transfers her cravings to the baby if she has a certain food a lot during a pregnancy."

"I ate healthily, Mulder."

"That means _with_ mushrooms, I figure, to tip the scale more to the veggie side," I conclude and elicit a smile from her.

"That means no pizza," she answers, sending her right eyebrow up her forehead.

"No, of course not! What have I been thinking? Pizza, hmfff...Let's see. Salad with mushrooms? Stuffed mushrooms? Mushroom pie?"

"Some if it, yes. I had a wonderful recipe for spelt mushroom risotto."

"Yuck, no! Spelt? Seriously, Scully?"

"Contrary to bee pollen, there _is_ scientific proof that spelt, if part of a balanced, healthy diet, has a very positive effect on both the mother and the baby."

"Ah, Scully, always the scientist, and a responsible expectant mother beyond all measure. I should've known," I say while I cup her face to place a soft kiss on her lips. "You never gave in to any cravings?"

"I might've had a chocolate donut once in a while," she admits, pursing her lips and chewing the inside of her cheek, swallowing the words rather than actually articulating them clearly for me to hear. "When my blood sugar level was too low," she then adds in a defensive afterthought and I have to bite my tongue now not to laugh right into her straight face.

"Sure. _Only_ when your blood sugar was too low. Those were therapeutic donuts, so to say."

"So to say."

I smile and nod.

We never had such a lighthearted conversation involving William. Until now, we've tiptoed around him, avoiding the subject and anything remotely related to it, but just a minute ago, she started a conversation about him and didn't even backtrack when her pregnancy came up, a particularly sensitive topic as it covers one of the worst time spans of her life; as of mine, actually, I was lying in a coffin, six feet under.

Is this what they mean when they say that nothing happens without a reason? Is this new way of dealing with the loss of our child something we gain from what we had to go through since that psychopath has taken her?

I see a Scully standing in front of me who is relaxed and elated, who apparently enjoys talking about her son and her pregnancy, who's even engaged me in a little banter, and it's uplifting me more than I would've ever expected. It's like a harness has been taken off my chest, a straitjacket loosened allowing me to finally fill my lungs with enough oxygen to resuscitate my broken heart.

Was it really necessary for Scully to go through an abduction, mental abuse, drug-related amnesia, and a panic attack to make us understand that rejoicing over having been blessed with a miracle baby brings us closer to a content, happy life than hiding our grief from each other and silently crying over him by ourselves?

It apparently was. Damn.

"I'd like to do something special on his birthday next month," she surprises me yet again and puts an end to the pondering silence.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know. A day at the beach, maybe. Or a fancy dinner."

"Hmm."

 _Come on, Mulder, think! You can come up with something better than that!_

"What if I took you to the Smithsonian Air and Space? They're having a traveling exhibit about the restoration of the Starship Enterprise. I hear it's well worth seeing. I bet _he,"_ no need to mention who I'm talking about, "would love to go. If you're good, in the end, you may even pick something from the gift shop."

A mocking snort slips out of her mouth. "Like what? A mug or a Tee with some kind of idiotic phrase on it, like 'live long and prosper'?"

Aaaah, how I love that sheepish smirk on her face when she's in a bantering mood.

"Nah, I'd go for a license plate frame. One that says 'second star to the right, then straight on 'til morning'."

I chuckle.

"I won't let you put something this silly on our car."

"Not even if I get us a new license plate saying SCTBMEUP?"

"No way! Uh-uh!" She stresses her words by banging her head so vehemently her hair flies through the air.

I decide to take this even further putting on my legendary pout. I've cultivated my skills at this to perfection, so I stick my bottom lip out, far, but not too far to overdo and make it look fake, letting my chin wrinkle slightly as I do this. Then I drop my head a tiny bit, not too much, as I want her to see my best puppy eyes peer up at her. I slouch my shoulders a little and loosely cross my arms in front of my chest. My voice is silent and flat when I finally mumble, "you're not nice."

Now she's the one who chuckles. Actually, she laughs wholeheartedly.

"Stop being eight yourself, Mulder." She shakes her head, obviously amused by my little performance. "It sounds like a wonderful idea, though, regardless, of your Star Trek fetish. If I'm allowed to stroll through the museum bookstore instead of the gift shop, you're on."

"You're allowed to stroll around wherever you want, Scully, as long as we're holding hands."

She tilts her head to one side and smiles at me. "You're adorable."

I can't but feel slightly proud of myself. I love it when applying my pouting bottom lip turns out to be this successful. I made her utter words of endearment, that's all I wanted.

I pull her towards me. "You're quite adorable yourself."

"Am I?"

"Yup!"

"Exactly how adorable?"

"Very."

"That's not exact, Mulder!"

"Is 'to the moon and back' better?"

"Hmm."

"You need more quantification?"

"I'm a scientist, I need proof."

"I see. Like a display of my adoration?"

"Would you be able to deliver a corresponding verification? One that might satisfy a scientist?"

"Like something tangible?"

"Uh huh. Something for me to see, hear or feel."

"Oookay, let me think."

I pull her yet a little closer.

"This is for you to see." My eyes find hers and I'm doing my best to let mine show her what I'm feeling at this very moment.

Then I put my mouth to her ear and breathe, "this is for you to hear: My adoration for you is indefinite, Scully, which to a scientist means without any upper or lower limits." I know that I'm at a very erogenous zone of hers and that I'm tickling her with my hot breath, but I don't care. Actually, I'm doing it on purpose.

"Now just one sense is missing," I say, laying my eyes on hers again. I have her right where I want her to be. She swallows, and her breath has become a bit shallow.

"Feel," she croons in an unstable voice.

"Yes," I growl, "this if for you to feel." I bring my face down and lightly brush my lips over hers, with a feather-light pressure at first, barely grazing over her mouth. I sweep the tip of my tongue over her lower lip, letting the words I'm going to say linger there. "Feel it, Scully?"

Instead of answering, she opens her mouth and invites me in. I slowly slide into her, moving my tongue around hers. She's reciprocating adequately, and when I retreat she follows me, chasing me into my domain. We're speeding it up for a moment, devouring each other.

God, she tastes so good!

I move my hands from her hips, around her back and up to her hair. Her arms are around my waist now and our bodies are pressed together. I need to touch her soft skin, so I cradle her face with my hands on her cheeks. When I feel her smile into my mouth, I pull back slightly but leave my forehead resting against hers.

"It that corresponding verification enough?" I ask in what I hope she perceives as a rhetorical question.

"It's always good to do a second test series. Scientists like to validate their first findings."

"I love scientists."

"I'm glad you do."

How can I not? I connect our lips again for another passionate kiss.

I've lost track of time when we finally break apart, both gasping for air. Scully releases a content sigh, nestling her head to my chest. With a breathy voice, she whispers, "we're gonna be fine, Mulder."

And I'm as certain as I've never been in my life when I answer, "yes, Scully, we're gonna be fine."

* * *

 _ **THE END**_


End file.
